


Just Beneath Her Heart

by ChummyGeekery



Series: Freddie-Davey-Bea Timeline [1]
Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Family Drama, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-07 07:11:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 31,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19204435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChummyGeekery/pseuds/ChummyGeekery
Summary: In 1961, Peter and Camilla ("Chummy") Noakes welcome their second child into the world. But after the birth, Chummy must confront a personal loss. Meanwhile, Nonnatus House grapples with tragedies of their own. (Repost from my fanfiction.net account.)





	1. Matron Noakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet our heroine in 1960, at a mother-and-baby home in the London suburbs...

When they arrived at the mother and baby home, the girls never knew what to expect. But whatever they imagined the matron would be like, surely none of them expected… her.

Most of the girls had never seen a woman so tall. Some of the poorer girls, the ones who were raised in tenements beneath the long shadow of malnourishment, swore they’d never seen anyone so tall. At six-foot-one, Camilla Noakes was perfectly within the normal range of human height- albeit on the higher side of said range. But, standing slightly slouched in a centuries-old doorway of beams and plaster, she seemed like a giantess.

She would shake hands with each person on her doorstep, while they encountered their second shock: her voice. With an alto timbre befitting her stature, but the lilt of a cheery schoolgirl, and an accent as posh as the Queen’s:

“Ah, yes. Mr. and Mrs. Henderson, I presume. And Jenny. Pleased to meet you all. I’m Matron Noakes. Do come in. Oh, and never mind the suitcase, old girl, I’ve got it. As it happens, you share your name with one of my dearest friends from my midwifery days in the East End. One might consider that a fortuitous start to our time together…”

They’d follow the gentle giantess into the house, all but the bravest of girls hovering close to their parents- or the social worker, if their parents hadn’t come. Even a near-stranger from their hometown was a tether to their old lives.

The girls were far from home. Thanks to a lifetime of dire warnings about the hardened wickedness of “fallen girls,” they were shy and fearful of the pear-shaped, tired-eyed girls they passed in the hall. Every girl who crossed that threshold was frightened- and ashamed. Even the coiffed and confident, the ones who held their heads high, smiled, and waved hello to their new housemates, were only putting on an act.

Matron Noakes knew this.

She’d lead her newest patient and their traveling companions into a small office, in a wing only slightly less ancient than the front of the home. It seemed that for every girl, there would be one or two details about this room that stood out in later memory. It might be the plain wooden cross on the wall. Or the tin of Horlicks powder on the side table, resting atop a colorful geometric-patterned cloth instead of the usual lace runner. Some stared at the picture on the desk, of Matron Noakes with a dark-haired man at her side and a baby in her arms.

Before starting the intake interview, Matron Noakes offered her guests refreshments- as any proper hostess would. A resident or the assistant nurse would bring the new girl and her traveling companions their choice of tea or Horlicks, biscuits or scones. Once everyone was settled, Matron Noakes would address all the intake questions to the girls themselves- no matter how many times they stared down into their hands and let the adults answer for them. For many of these girls, it had been months since they last spoke for themselves. Perhaps she’d last protested:

_But it’s too warm for a Duffel coat, Mum._

_He loves me, I know it. He won’t run off, I swear._

Or perhaps, earlier still:

_You sure we don’t need a sheath?_

_I said I don’t want to, Billy._

Matron Noakes understood this.

After the interview, she’d offer a tour of the house: “Although, if you prefer to retire to your dormitory for a spell, Jenny, then we can postpone.”

If a girl declined the tour, and if she’d come here with her parents, Matron Noakes would then give them a few minutes’ privacy in her office to say their goodbyes. She stayed within earshot, though. On the rare occasions that the parents seized a final opportunity to berate their “little hussy,” Matron Noakes would sidle back in, offering cheery apologies and pretending to be in urgent need of a letter opener.

Apart from the letter-opener incidents, Matron Noakes still offered tours to the parents whose daughters chose to rest straightaway. But first, she personally escorted the girls upstairs. Matron Noakes would have the suitcase in one hand, her other hand hovering protectively at the girl’s back, and a fresh handkerchief at the ready in the breast pocket of her uniform.

Some parents skipped the tour, whether their daughters had gone up to rest or not. They pressed their lips tight, hid their clenched or wringing hands in their coats, and avoided looking into the matron’s guileless eyes. They gave clipped excuses about impending nightfall and the train schedules.

“Quite alright,” Matron Noakes would say, as she proffered cards with the home’s contact information- and visiting hours.

The center of the home was a nobleman’s hunting lodge, dating back to the Stuart period. More space was added over the centuries- and more modern amenities in the twentieth. It was all a bit slapdash; there were spots where one had to mind the low ceiling, or a change in floor height at the threshold. Matron Noakes made sure to point them all out during the tours. Heaven knows she’d had enough rough encounters with these spots, herself.

The place was tidy, if a bit shabby and over-washed. The rooms were bright with lamps or, when available, sunshine through the tall windows. Permeating odors of bleach and detergent were gently smoothed over with the scent of a real Christmas tree in winter, and cuttings from the home’s own gardens the rest of the year. The curling wallpaper was peppered with wall hangings, embroidered by past and present residents: blockish cottages, and Bible verses ringed with flowers.

The kitchen was quite large. Even when all twelve of the home’s beds were occupied, (which was often,) they all took meals together, without splitting into shifts. The food was basic and bland: this helped ensure that any girl could be successful on kitchen duty, and that they were rarely put off by different tastes. There was fortified shredded wheat and a choice of canned fruits for breakfast. The other meals were vegetables and boiled meat, or a stew thrown together from yesterday’s leftovers. At dinner, they had scones for dessert, or store-bought pie on the weekends.

Unless they had urgent business elsewhere in the home, the assistant nurses and Matron Noakes sat and ate with the girls. There was prayer before the meal, and lots of happy chatter during. No one was ever discouraged from asking for seconds. And that initial offer of refreshments stood open between meals, round the clock, for the duration of the girls’ stay. The snack cupboard was always well-stocked with store-bought biscuits, tea, and Horlicks. (Turns out the Horlicks in the matron’s office was merely a personal stash.)

There was a study with an old piano, a pair of writing desks, and shelves upon shelves of books with crackling spines and abundant dog-ears. There was a rec room with board games, knitting supplies, a television, and several settees. The blankets folded neatly across the settee backs had the same sort of geometric, tribal pattern as the side-table cloth in Matron Noakes’ office. They clashed wondrously with the chintz upholstery.

It was around this part of the tour that some of the poorer girls would blurt: “This place is right proper!” Matron Noakes would smile at that- but with sadness in her eyes. It wasn’t just the girls she pitied. She wished her own upbringing had been this “proper”- and no more.

Opposite the kitchen, and almost as large, was the ‘cleaning room’. There was a pair of old wringer-type washing machines, two ironing boards, one drying machine, and a cart for wheeling washed clothes out to the line in good weather. Mops and brooms and cleaning supplies were kept, not in claustrophobic closets, but on wall hooks and in easy-to-reach shelves. A chalkboard by the door contained the chore chart.

In the spring of 1960, when Matron Noakes was still fairly new to the home herself, a girl named Shirley took one look at the chore chart and burst into tears.

“I say, old girl. What ever is the matter?” Matron Noakes asked, proffering her handkerchief.

Shirley tried to gulp back her tears. “Do I have to get down on my knees? For the floors, I mean. It’s only, my cousin Pauline went in one of these homes, and she said they have you scrubbing the floors on your hands and knees til your water breaks. I... I think I can still manage now, but the closer my time gets, the harder it is…”

“Oh!” the matron gasped quietly. “Oh, you poor thing.”

She turned Shirley to face her. The girl fell into the matron’s arms, sobbing pitifully. The shoulder of Matron Noakes’ uniform took up where her handkerchief had left off. She didn’t mind; in fact, she barely noticed.

From that day on, it was written across the top of the chore chart:

LIGHT DUTY: 3 WKS BEFORE/AFTER + ON REQUEST.


	2. Another Bean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie Noakes doesn't have to _stay_ an only child...

Matron Noakes worked at the home from seven in the morning until seven at night, all days except Fridays and Sundays. Even when she was off the clock, she wasn’t far away. She and her little son Freddie lived in a charming old cottage, only half a mile down the road, which the council provided for the home’s acting matron. The nurses all knew where to find her, if need be. But most of the residents didn’t realize that she lived so close.

She did her best not to overshare. She knew, from her boarding school years, how dormitory gossip mills were ever hungry for personal details about the matron. A lonely young girl might latch onto the smallest reason to idolize her; a petulant one could twist any whisper into a maudlin rumor.

Most of the girls never knew Matron Noakes’ first name: Camilla. None of them knew that, apart from her late mother’s reproach or her husband’s tender words, she seldom went by that name anyway. To all her friends, and even to herself, Camilla Noakes was simply “Chummy.”

When she first started working at the home, Chummy used to bring Freddie to work with her. Some of the residents were delighted. They’d sneak him biscuits, or scoop him up onto what was left of their laps as they watched television in the afternoons. They’d brag that they were a natural with little ones because they had baby brothers or sisters, nieces or nephews.

They never compared Freddie to their own babies. At least, not out loud.

Other residents avoided Freddie like the plague- particularly when he was on his mother’s hip. Their dark, jealous looks eventually convinced Chummy to leave Freddie with a neighbor woman on her workdays. (With proper compensation, of course.) She used the excuse that she didn’t want Freddie poking and prodding the residents’ newborn babies, as curious tots are wont to do.

Besides, without Freddie underfoot, she had more time to care for the girls. She also spent less time fielding questions about her husband’s whereabouts. Even with the picture on her desk and the ring on her left hand, it seemed her attachment to a man went unnoticed without evidence of a child. (A fact that she found sort of darkly amusing, considering her line of work.) It was a relief, no longer having to force a smile as she explained that Mr. Noakes- Sergeant Noakes, as it were- worked as a policeman in the East End of London. And for the most part he boarded there, too.

There was a room kept for Chummy’s husband Peter at Nonnatus House, an Anglican nunnery and nurse-midwives’ residence in the neighborhood of Poplar. Chummy had lived and worked at Nonnatus for almost a year before she and Peter married; she was still close friends with the Sisters, and all but the newest nurses. In fact, it was their deep affection for Peter’s wife that convinced the Nonnatans to allow a man- and not one of the cloth- to live among them for so long.

When Chummy and Freddie first moved out to the cottage, Peter had planned to stay at Nonnatus only when he had night shifts. But with Chummy working long hours too, Peter wasn’t always guaranteed hot dinners and freshly-ironed uniforms at the cottage. It was easier to skip the long commute out to the country and have dinner with the Nonnatans. He could take care of his own laundry at the nunnery; he’d been a bachelor long enough to know his way around an ironing board.

Gradually, without either party complaining to the other, Peter and Chummy fell into a new arrangement. Peter mostly popped up to the cottage on his Sundays off. He would call whenever he had another one coming up, and Chummy would circle the date in bright red pen on the wall calendar in the kitchen. When Freddie asked to see Daddy, she’d hoist him up, show him the calendar, and count off the days with him.

One evening, when Freddie was perhaps twenty-one months old, she caught him “counting off days” on his own. There he was, stood on the linoleum in his footie pajamas, practically dancing in place. One hand was in his mouth, while the other jabbed wildly upward at the calendar. He chanted: “One, oo, fee, Daddy! One, oo, fee, Daddy!”

She felt her heart sink.

When she told Peter that Freddie’s babysitter had small children of her own, she could hear his sigh of relief over the telephone line. “That’s good,” he said. “What with him being an only child, you’ve got to make sure he’s not lonely.”

I had six brothers, and I was still terribly lonely as a child, Chummy thought. But she bit her tongue. After a moment’s grimace, she did her best to put on what they called, thanks to an old inside joke, her ‘fish and chips voice’:

“He doesn’t have to _stay_ an only child, Peter,” she murmured. “If we tried more often…”

There was another sigh on Peter’s end. This one was not so relieved.

Even when he came up to the cottage, they didn’t always get the chance. If Peter had a late shift Saturday or an early one Monday, he might visit for the day but not the night. If he did stay overnight, either he or Chummy might be lost in thought about a tough case- or simply knackered from overwork. Freddie might be up all night with a head cold. Or he might crawl into bed with them, relishing even minute that he could be close to his Daddy. Neither Peter nor Chummy had the heart to send him back to his room.

They kept trying, whenever they could. But it didn’t seem to be enough. Not for another child, and not for their hearts- still as lovesick and tangled-up as the day that Sister Evangelina had to broker their first date to the pictures.

1960 ended in a blur. There was Freddie’s second birthday, then a weekend back in Poplar to attend the wedding of some old friends- and to spread Mater’s ashes over the Thames. Then came Christmas. And then, just after New Year’s, a resident of the mother-and-baby home- nineteen-year-old Lily from Swindon- decided to keep her baby.

Chummy instructed her staff never to discourage the option, especially if a mother was nearing twenty-one and seemed willing to work hard. But with the rest of the world discouraging them, only three of the residents in the past year had left the home with their baby in their arms. Each such departure came after weeks of Chummy and her staff filling out aid program applications, calling in favors with social workers, and having serious sit-downs with the mother. It was quite an ordeal, for both the head and the heart. After she saw Lily and baby Mark off at the train station, Chummy felt a breath away from bursting into tears. And she stayed that way for days.

Her melancholy side was something that Chummy usually kept to her closest confidantes. (God and Peter topped the short list.) It was quite unlike her to cry at the drop of a hat over a work case. But then, she’d been noticing other signs- more telltale, clinical ones- since late November. Preoccupied with the needs of others, Chummy had put her own business on the back burner until, suddenly, it was February.

When she felt a flutter while lacing her girdle one morning, as if in protest of the tight confinement, she patted her tum and sighed happily.

“Well then, bean. I suppose it’s high time we inform your father of your impending arrival.”

Peter rang after supper that evening, as he did every night that he was in London but off the clock. (And some nights he was on the clock too, if he could sneak it.) Chummy put Freddie on the line, and whispered in her son’s other ear:

“Ask him if he wants a boy or girl this time.”

Being only two years old, Freddie botched it:

“Daddy! Mummy wants boy. Girl. An’, an’ I wants biscuits!”

They cleared things up soon enough. Peter swapped shifts until he got the whole weekend off. He arrived on Saturday morning, barely resisting what would have been a reckless attempt at sweeping his wife off her feet. He stayed until Monday.

In the time between, there were kisses and laughter in abundance, a tray of homemade biscuits, and plenty of dancing in dressing gowns.


	3. Boku Uman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the next Little Bean gets bigger, Chummy grows self-conscious. Luckily her darling Peter is there to remind her how lovely she really is!

When Chummy’s G.P. realized he couldn’t convince her to quit working entirely, he ordered her to cut back to six hours a day, four days a week at the mother and baby home. “I know you’ve a soft spot for those girls, Mrs. Noakes,” he said. “But you and your baby must come first. You are at elevated risk, after all.”

“I can’t help but think he’s making much ado about nothing,” Chummy confessed to Trixie, her best friend from Nonnatus House. It was March, and they were catching up over bagels at a cafe in Whitechapel. “They’d never stand for it in Sierra Leone. It was ‘all hands on deck’ there, everyone doing what they could to help each other get on. Black and white, men and women. Expectant mothers were no exception, as long as we felt up to it.”

“But why are you at elevated risk, sweetie?” Trixie asked gently. “Is everything alright?”

Chummy couldn’t help but smile. “We’re both absolutely splendid so far. It’s only the spot of trouble I had with Freddie at the end. That, and I’m now what they call ‘elderly multigravida.’”

Chummy had been anticipating Trixie’s reaction to the phrase; and she did not disappoint. Her neatly penciled eyes and peachy pink lips formed perfect O’s of shock and indignation.

“Elderly? Oh, Chummy, how dare they!”

“You and I both know the obstetricians have set the bar at thirty-five. Which is precisely how old I’ll be this June. Baby’s not due until July.”

“I know.” Trixie shook her head, tapping her cigarette into the ashtray with a distinct air of annoyance. “Still, it’s utterly absurd. Thirty-five! Half the mothers in Poplar have their youngest after thirty-five. Or their two or three youngest. It’s a perfectly normal age.”

“I couldn’t agree more. And I daresay,” Chummy grinned, “that if the Nonnatan midwives went around calling mothers elderly, even half as freely as my G.P. does, the women of the district would be after your heads on stakes!”

‘Elderly’ or otherwise, Chummy had no shortage of energy. Now with more time outside of work, she threw herself into other pursuits. She was able to keep on top of cooking and housekeeping all week long, which had the bonus of drawing Peter out to the country on weeknights. She savored spending more time with Freddie. They played with his train sets; she read him Dr. Seuss and Ezra Jack Keats; she let him “help” her fold laundry and sweep the lino. She even bought a tricycle from a shop in the village, and taught Freddie to ride it on the back patio. Cycling was such a useful skill, and much easier to learn when young.

Some might say that Chummy was spoiling Freddie. (Mater certainly would, if she were still alive.) But Chummy didn’t care. She wanted to make positively certain that her little boy knew he was well loved, before the baby came and took up much of her time. She mentioned the baby often to Freddie, hoping to avoid a shock down the road. She’d lightly remark about how all three of them would have to work together to take care of Baby. And Freddie was getting to be such a big boy now, surely he’d be a tremendous help, wouldn’t he?

Freddie seemed to take it all rather well. By Chummy’s sixth month, he would lean into her at story time, hug her growing bump, and say, “Baby bruvver.”

Chummy kept her knitting projects for nights when she had trouble sleeping. It helped to have something quiet that she could do in bed, something mundane enough to lull her back off to sleep. And it was best that Freddie didn’t see all the pink yarn.

Of course she’d be just as blessed, and love Baby just as much, if it were another boy. He could have Freddie’s hand-me-downs, and all these new little jumpers and booties would be sent to Nonnatus House for a charity box. But in the meantime, Chummy needed to put her wish for a girl into actions. Even when confiding in Peter, or in Trixie, it was too much for her to put into words.

At work, she didn’t speak of her impending new arrival at all. As springtime came into bloom, and Chummy along with it, she started getting a little short of breath if she took the stairs too quickly. She knocked things over more than usual, and had to be slow and strategic in how she bent down to retrieve them. Sometimes a resident would notice and give her a funny look.

“Oh, Lawks! Clumsy me,” she might laugh. Or: “I suppose I’ll have to lay off the almond sponge and start taking longer constitutionals.”

The National Health sent a “co-matron” to help her manage the home. The minute she heard the news, Chummy knew that this woman was meant to learn the ropes from her, and then become her permanent replacement. But Chummy was determined to be kind to her, anyway.

On the curriculum vitae the National Health sent ahead, Chummy saw that Nurse Margaret Reid got her start as a midwife in the Govan district of Glasgow. She was there from 1930 to 1951, before moving on to stints as a missionary in several countries. An old hand, with plenty of qualifications and experience. Chummy wondered if Nurse Reid was one of those adventurous, boundlessly energetic spinsters that one often found among nurses over a certain age.

She turned out to be the best Chummy could have hoped for. She was a short but sturdy woman, with ample crow’s feet, and a bob haircut dyed jet black. When they met at the home’s front door, she took a good look up and down Chummy’s figure, but she didn’t say anything in front of the girls. Only once they’d closed the office door behind them did Nurse Reid remark:

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to keep that cottage they told me about for a wee bit longer. I won’t have you moving house on account of little old me- no, not in your condition. I’ll take an extra room here if you’ve got one, or find myself a little flat in town.”

(That answered the spinster question.)

“I hear you worked in the East End,” Nurse Reid continued. “Govan’s much the same sort of place, only with a brogue.”

“Is it?” Chummy smiled. “Well then, we must swap anecdotes sometime.”

“We must,” Nurse Reid agreed. She eyed the runner on the side table. “Is that kente cloth, by any chance?”

“Lappa, actually.”

“Och. My mistake. I ask because I worked in the Gold Coast- well, Ghana, now.”

“Oh how splendid! My husband and I were in Sierra Leone several years ago.”

They were on a first-name basis by the end of that first meeting. Within a week, they were ‘Chummy’ and ‘Maggie’ if they thought none of the residents were in earshot. Far from resenting her intrusion, Chummy wished she and Maggie Reid weren’t always working opposite hours; she had a sense they could become friends.

There was a camellia bush just outside the office window. The first round of blooms came in March. By mid-May, the last of the big, heavy blossoms were sagging and dropping to the ground. At the end of her shifts, Chummy felt increasingly like doing the same.

She knew she couldn’t work here much longer. For one thing, her G.P. wanted her booked into a hospital maternity ward in early July, put ‘under observation’ for the last few weeks of her pregnancy. And she felt different this time. With Freddie, Chummy had been buoyed by an indescribable energy- “brimming with beans,” so to speak- up until the day she went into labor. It seemed the beans were in shorter supply this time around.

Maggie had been working at the home for six weeks when, for only the third time, she and Chummy managed to steal a few minutes for tea and a collegial debriefing behind the office’s closed door. So she didn’t waste any time:

“Chummy, I appreciate why you don’t talk with the girls about your own wee one. I know you don’t want them worrying for you, or getting jealous.”

“Spot on, old girl.”

“But you do know they have eyes, don’t you?”

Chummy sighed. The desk chair creaked as she leaned back, and allowed herself a gesture she’d never indulged in at work before: she rubbed her hand along the broadening curve of her belly.

“Any chance they don’t notice my ring, and assume I’m just a portly nun?” Chummy teased.

“No chance at all, I’m afraid,” Maggie said delicately. “They keep mum during your shifts, out of respect, but I hear them talking. And yesterday, Ruby Exley got up the nerve to ask me if you shouldn’t be on light duty soon.”

“But the girls all know light duty starts three weeks before one’s due date! I’m still ten weeks from mine.” Chummy felt herself blush. Was she really so massive already?

Maggie reached across the desk and took Chummy’s hand. “Light duty’s also available at any time, on request, dear,” she reminded her. “And most of the girls are quite fond of you. They want to make sure you’re alright, is all.”

Chummy did her best not to squirm or pout. In the family way or otherwise, she seldom liked having attention called to how big she was. She saw a chance to change the subject:

“I’m fond of the girls, as well. Most all of them have been ever so willing to help out around the home- and to help one another. It’s a bally awful thing they’re going through, and yet they try so hard to make the best of it.”

Maggie nodded knowingly. “They’re good girls. First-timers, from decent families. They made a youthful mistake- and a common enough one. Plenty of other girls do the same and get off scot-free. As do all the boys, of course. These are just the unlucky ones.”

“I’m going to miss them all terribly.” Chummy swallowed hard. “But I thank God it was you that the National Health sent us, old thing. I couldn’t be-“ her voice wavered. “leaving them in… better hands.”

“Och, you poor dear,” Maggie murmured as she proffered her handkerchief.

\-----

Though he knew she’d become quite attached to the place, Peter was secretly glad to see Camilla resign from the mother and baby home. He didn’t think it was right, how she worked so hard for those girls when she was in the same condition as them- only twice their age, and having done everything the _right_ way. Besides, she wasn’t sleeping very well at night; it was best if she could lie down whenever she needed during the day.

Mrs. Shelby, the neighbor who had watched Freddie on Camilla’s work days, was still willing to take him off her hands at any time. The new home matron stopped by on her days off, too, bringing congratulatory cards and origami flowers from the residents. Camilla now called both Mrs. Shelby and Nurse Reid her friends. If she got out of the house for something other than work, after Baby came, Peter had no doubt that Camilla would make even more friends. One day, remembering how she’d admired the local pottery in Sierra Leone, he stopped at the community center and picked up their autumn calendar of arts and crafts classes.

Now that she only went out for brunch with Trixie or to run errands, Camilla had stopped wearing her maternity girdle. Peter never liked the dratted thing. With Freddie, she only wore it once they’d left the humid heat of Africa and returned to England. Camilla had to coax Peter into pulling hard on the straps, even pressing against the small of her back for leverage. He’d heard her inhale sharply as he tugged; he’d worried about whether he was hurting her, or the baby. But she had insisted:

“Mater wore a corset to the very last, all seven times. It’s all perfectly safe, and it helps with the posture.”

Camilla’s posture was just fine now. Though she did seem to try and hunch forward at times, as if to downplay both her bump and her height. She was partial to a quilted maternity dressing gown which had seen her through an English autumn with Freddie- but was quite unseasonably warm now. She kept the thick fabric pulled around her middle. If the dressing gown slipped to reveal the vast white expanse of her nightie, or if Peter saw a hint of a ponderous sway in her walk, she would huff and pout.

What was she being so stroppy for? Didn’t she notice how these things made him smile?

It was a warm evening in June. They sat in bed, reading, with the windows cracked and a Bobby Helms record on the turntable. Camilla was in good spirits. When Peter came home from work, she’d reported feeling “not quite brimming with beans, but a long way from being fresh out.” Now, whenever Peter chuckled at the Lone Ranger novel he was rereading, she’d set down her own book and ask him what had happened.

“You know I’ll never tell anyone you read those silly things,” she teased.

“Good,” he declared. “The boys’d never let me live it down.”

“Especially not Dave,” Camilla smiled.

Dave was Peter’s best mate on the force. They’d swapped many a shift, back when Camilla was working full-time, and Peter only ever saw her on his Sundays off. But Dave was also a relentless tease. In recent months, most of Peter and Camilla’s friends and acquaintances had enough tact not to take advantage of the rhymes between “Chummy,” “Mummy,” and “tummy.” But not Dave.

“What’s that you’re reading, then?” Peter asked.

“John Bowlby. He’s a psychiatrist. But not like Freud,” she added quickly. “He’s quite sensible, in fact. He has this ‘attachment theory.’ I think it’s common sense; he just spells it out quite nicely, and supports it with research findings.”

“What’s the theory?”

“It’s all about the importance of the young child bonding with their parents- or with any sort of regular caretaker.”

 _Like an ayah,_ Peter thought but didn’t say.

“That early attachment is everything for the child,” Camilla continued. “It teaches them how to relate to other people. It gives them courage: knowing they can set out and explore their world, and if ever they get overwhelmed, they only need to turn around and their caregiver will be there.”

As she spoke, Camilla wore the most peaceful, elegant expression of contemplation. She also caressed her belly. Peter didn’t think she even noticed herself doing it at first. But then she noticed him noticing.

“What’s this? Now? Peter, I’m an _elephant._ ”

“You are not,” he insisted. “You’re the mother of my children, Camilla. You don’t know what that does to a man.”

She rolled her eyes, as if to say, _Oh, tosh._ Only she didn’t say it. And she was still smiling a bit.

“You remember what they called you in Sierra Leone? When you started showing with Freddie?”

“How could I forget,” she grumbled. “ _Boku uman._ ‘A _lot_ of woman’.”

“That’s what the Reverend Appleby-Thornton said, yeah. But you remember the African nuns? They said it was more like _plentiful_ woman. They said it was a compliment, coming from them villagers. They still deal with famine every few years, and here was this woman coming to help their women and babies. This-”

Peter took a shaking breath.

“This _big,_ beautiful woman, with her own baby growing so well…”

There were tears in Camilla’s eyes. And yet, still, she was smiling. “Oh, Peter.”

“I only wish you saw what they saw, Camilla. They were… in awe of you. And so am I.”

He leaned in to kiss her. She welcomed him in, coaxed his hands around her. When at last they pulled back, just barely, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. She looked down at him in a heavy-lidded way, wondrous and anticipating…

“I’ll be gentle,” he promised.

“I know,” she breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I tag this "pregnant sex"? I mean, *almost*...
> 
> Also, if it helps you to picture an original character: I basically see Nurse Reid as Dawn French with a brogue. ;-)


	4. A Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chummy shows up at Nonnatus House "top-heavy" for a second time. Sister Monica Joan makes a proclamation.

Once Peter turned off Commercial Road and into Poplar, it was as if life crowded in on their car. Peter slowed to a crawl while Chummy switched off the radio. There were lines of washing strung low overhead. Women pushed prams down the pavement on their way to the shops. Men played checkers on street corners, enjoying a mild and dry summer Saturday. Children played tag and football and skipped rope in the streets. Peter and Chummy both rolled down their windows, letting in the breeze off the Thames and the strident Cockney greetings.

“Mornin’ officer Noakes! And Missus Noakes!”

“We ‘eard your good news, we did, luv!”

“Look! Look! Akela’s back!”

“’Ello luvvy, ‘ow’s yerself?”

“Positively splendid! And you?” Chummy called back. She smiled and waved, then giggled at her own grandeur. She felt like the Queen in a motorcade. Or Jackie Kennedy, even! One could hardly avoid getting swept away in it all.

Yesterday, Peter and Chummy had taken Freddie to stay with Peter’s parents. Now, on her final weekend of freedom before checking into the maternity ward, Chummy was coming back to Nonnatus House. Apart from Trixie, most of the Nonnatans hadn’t seen Chummy since the winter weekend when she’d spread Mater’s ashes. She was terribly excited for this visit; she had a case of the butterflies to compete with Baby’s kicks.

But amongst all the smiling faces- the former patients and their families, the boys from Scouts, the old friends and neighbors- Chummy spotted a few children jeering.

“What-ho! What-ho!” they mocked her accent. “Jolly good, old bean! Haw-haw!”

They were some of the poorest children of Poplar. The ones whose parents’ worries were worlds away from Scouts or church socials, or even making sure the kids got to school. They were the ones whom postwar progress was still leaving behind- the ones who had little choice but to grow up mean.

Even once the rest of Poplar accepted Chummy for her kindness and skill, these children never did. They used to wait until Jack Smith, and all her other chivalrous young defenders from the Scouts, were out of earshot. Then they’d chase after her on her rounds, bellowing: _Look out! It’s the Hippo!_

“Oy!” Peter punched the horn. “Out of the way! And show some respect!”

The children scattered. Peter squeezed Chummy’s hand. She squeezed back, took a deep breath, and thought to herself, _boku uman_. She was grateful that she’d be among friends once she got out of the car.

They arrived at the new Nonnatus House. Chummy still thought of it as ‘new.’ The Nonnatus where she had lived was an old gothic abbey, with stone floors and crumbling brick walls. It was condemned shortly after Freddie was born. The new residence was a stately sort of place, with a sandstone façade, bay windows, and a raised vegetable garden currently bursting with color. But the change that Chummy most appreciated right now was the entrance. At the old Nonnatus, one had to scale a flight and a half of uneven stone stairs merely to reach the front door. The new Nonnatus had a smooth, low stoop with only four wide steps. It was much easier to navigate, especially when one could no longer see one’s own feet.

Sister Julienne answered the door. Though she looked tired, she beamed at the sight of Chummy. The old friends clasped hands.

“Nurse Noakes! How wonderful to see you again. Are you well?”

“Baby and I are both absolutely tip-top, I’m pleased to report. Truly, my cup runneth over,” Chummy only half-joked.

“The Lord has blessed you and your family, dear one,” the Sister proclaimed in her warm, husky voice.

There were shadows beneath Sister Julienne’s eyes, and her smile didn’t reach to her crow’s feet. But before Chummy could ask after the nun’s well-being, there came a giddy, shrieking stampede down the main staircase.

First there was Trixie, looking like a model with her flawless coiffure, bright summer blouse, capris and ballet-style slippers. Then came Patsy, in a style more suitable for early on a Saturday morning: barefoot, in plaid pajamas, with her long Titian locks still bed-rumpled. Then the young nuns- Sister Mary Cynthia and Sister Winifred. At last, Delia and Barbara brought up the rear, both looking a bit shy.

“Chummy! You’re here!”

“Goodness, I hadn’t realized you were so close to the big day!”

“Oh, you look wonderful, sweetie!”

“Do come in, we’ll get you settled and off your feet…”

There were hands everywhere- helpful ones taking her suitcase, doting ones at her elbows, curious ones on her middle. “I say,” Chummy grinned. “It’s as if none of you girls have ever seen an expectant mother before.”

“I bet Sister Evangelina would say that if she were here. Right before yelling, _Now back to your studying, the lot of you!_ ”

“Which is why we’d like to check Baby’s heartbeat, position, and your fundal height: for our continuing education,” said Patsy. “If it’s alright with you.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to be responsible for you neglecting your on-the-job training,” Chummy joked.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Not in the slightest, old thing,” Chummy replied. And she meant it. Coming back to Nonnatus House felt freeing, empowering. This was a place where women’s matters- things that were whispered about, euphemized, feared by the broader society- could be discussed openly. Celebrated, even.

She turned back and saw Peter lingering on the stoop. “I’m off to my shift!” he called down the corridor. The poor man looked terribly awkward all of a sudden. (Perhaps it was the words ‘fundal height’ that did it.) Sister Julienne said her goodbyes as well. Something about a hospital secondment, and leaving Chummy in good hands. Chummy couldn’t quite catch the nun’s low voice over all the fussing and giggling.

The girls helped her onto the settee, lengthwise with her feet up. Barbara disappeared into the kitchen to fix them all brunch. Patsy held her stethoscope between her hands to warm it, while Trixie unrolled a tape measure. The young nuns stood by the settee, holding up a blanket- a ‘privacy screen’, in case Fred the handyman or any other male should happen to enter the convent.

Chummy was wearing her favorite maternity dress, which she had made herself from seersucker printed with pink camellias. It was a simple, scoop-neck sundress that buttoned in the front. She was just starting to unfasten the buttons over her tum when Nurse Crane appeared. The tough old bean was carrying a clipboard; she came from the direction of the telephone station and on-call board. When she spotted Chummy, her stride slowed and her expression warmed.

“Are they paying you enough attention, Nurse Noakes?”

“Quite.”

“Well it is good to have you back with us, dear. You’re looking very well.” And then, to the whole group: “Right. I’m on first call. And where is Nurse Gilbert?”

“In the kitchen, fixing us all brunch,” Sister Winifred reported. “I’m sure she’d be happy to bring you some fruit and scones.”

“No need,” Nurse Crane said crisply. “I’ll fix my own while I inform her she’s on second call. I don’t believe Sister Monica Joan is up and about, but do keep an ear out for the telephone while I’m away.”

“We will,” Patsy promised. As Nurse Crane set off, Chummy and Patsy shared a knowing look. “She’s in charge while Sister Julienne’s working at St. Cuthbert’s.”

“So I deduced.”

“Now, let’s check on Baby, shall we?”

As Chummy finished unbuttoning, she saw Patsy pause ever so briefly, staring in surprise. Though Chummy could no longer see it herself without a mirror, she knew Patsy was looking at the long scar that descended from just below her belly button.

“I hadn’t realized you had a cesarean.”

“I’m afraid that Freddie and I got ourselves into quite a pickle at the end.” Chummy smiled, as Trixie squeezed her hand. “But as they say, ‘all’s well that ends well.’”

“That’s the spirit,” Patsy said gently.

“It is a portent! A sign that one is destined for great purposes!”

The proclamation had come from beyond the privacy blanket. The younger women suppressed giggles as Sister Monica Joan, the eccentric elder nun of Nonnatus, tiptoed into the sitting room. Her bright blue eyes were fixed on Chummy in a kind of reverence.

“Remember that our patron, Saint Raymond Nonnatus, was plucked unborn from his mother’s womb! And thank the cosmos, my dear, that we live on the cusp of the Age of Aquarius. Scientific progress has spared you the grim fate of Saint Raymond’s poor mother, for which we are all most grateful.”

“Lovely to see you again, Sister Monica Joan,” Chummy smiled.

In her knobby, long-fingered hands, Sister Monica Joan carried a little rag doll. She had black felt for skin, black yarn for hair, and simple embroidered features. Chummy was reminded of the day she first met Sister Monica Joan. The nun had been working on a similar doll then; only it was a little boy, in a blue jacket and pinstripe trousers. This one was a girl, in a dress made of African indigo cloth. It well could have been a piece of the cloth that Chummy herself had brought back from Sierra Leone, as a gift to the Nonnatans.

“Love and gratitude spring exceptionally deep in your heart,” Sister Monica Joan told Chummy, as the others watched in respectful silence. “I am certain that, should you have another boy, you will be most content. And yet I sense that, like many mothers, you wish to balance the masculine and feminine energies of your home.”

She held forth the doll.

“Consider this, my child, not only a gift: but a wish, given material form. A wish for a girl this time.”

“Oh thank you, Sister. She’s absolutely precious.”

As Chummy gently took the doll, she found herself blinking through tears of joy.


	5. Dearest Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chummy reflects on her friendship with Trixie- and plans a special tribute to her dearest friend.

After brunch, Trixie took Chummy up to her room for the “spa treatment.” Face mask, manicure, foot massage. She was about to start on the pedicure, and Chummy was about to nod off to the Shirelles and the gentle scent of the cucumber face cream, when there was a knock on the door.

“Are you two decent?”

“We’re practically naked; do come in,” Trixie deadpanned.

The door creaked open, and Chummy heard all mirth evaporate from Trixie’s voice:

“Oh.”

Chummy opened her eyes. It was Barbara Gilbert at the door.

“Josie Pettigrew’s mother-in-law just called. Her contractions are seven minutes apart,” Barbara reported. “So I’m off. You’re on first call now, Trixie.”

“Alright. Off you go, then.”

Trixie got up and switched off the music. It struck Chummy as the most effective way for Trixie to turn her back on Barbara- to practically ignore her, even- while making it clear that she wasn’t ignoring her duties.

Barbara nodded cordially to Chummy, then tiptoed backwards out of sight. Something was happening here. Chummy suspected it at brunch, when everyone seemed to glance askance at Trixie whenever Barbara so much as cracked a smile. The two of them hadn’t addressed one another during the meal. In fact, Chummy didn’t think she’d seen Barbara and Trixie speak to each other at all today, apart from that business briefing just now.

“I say, Trixie. Have you and Nurse Gilbert had a falling-out?”

Trixie concerned herself with the bustle of changing into her nurse’s uniform. “Not exactly,” she murmured. “Don’t worry yourself about it.”

“I won’t. Unless you refuse to tell me, in which case I’ll have to assume it’s simply too awful to recount,” Chummy teased. “You wouldn’t want to be responsible for a woman in my condition tying herself in knots, would you?”

Trixie sighed heavily. She stopped amid buttoning up and looked Chummy dead in the eye. “Barbara’s been courting Tom. Behind my back.”

“…Oh.”

“…Well. I’ll be by the phone. Leave that mask on for another three minutes, sweetie.”

With that, Trixie grabbed some magazines, and scooped up her work shoes on her way out the door.

Chummy waited the three minutes. But she was biting her lip the whole time, which would have left Trixie quite chagrined. Once she rinsed her face, she thought she might follow Trixie downstairs. But then, getting upstairs in the first place had been a feat worthy of Sir Edmund Hillary…

Besides, she’d had a long drive this morning. Thanks to Trixie, her feet and calves now felt more relaxed than they had in weeks. Trixie’s pillow was soft and cool, and smelled soothingly of cold cream and lemons…

So she dozed off, dreaming of bygone days.

\-----

_June, 1957_

Chummy had only been in Poplar for a few months, and already she had a date with a man. A second date, actually. With the same man as the first date!

And what a man was Constable Peter Noakes! He was the kind of man who could be levelled by a massive 1910 Raleigh bicycle and, upon blinking back to his senses, immediately ask the offending cyclist if she was alright. The kind of man who let his date pick the film, and then sat through Grace Kelly’s _High Society_ without complaint. The kind of man who always greeted the object of his affection with a restrained and courteous “you look well,” and who pulled low-hanging laundry out of her path as they parted ways.

In short, Peter Noakes was a man of quiet chivalry. He was rather easy on the eyes as well, Chummy thought: what with his solid shoulders, virile five-o’-clock shadow, and gray-blue eyes as steady and refreshing as the sea at Brighton.

Trixie Franklin, one of Chummy’s new friends and colleagues at Nonnatus House, took it upon herself to prepare Chummy for what she called a “pivotal moment.” She was convinced that Peter would be watching Chummy’s every move. She acted out how Chummy should behave when they stopped at the diner before the cinema. Though Trixie insisted that Chummy pretend she and Peter were at the Dorchester, instead.

“Lean in slightly, and tilt your head, so that you have to look at him through your eyelashes.”

Easy enough for this miniature Marilyn Monroe to say! “It could give one’s neck an awful crick,” Chummy joked. Quiet little Cynthia Miller tittered beside her.

But Trixie was undeterred. “Well obviously it’s a pose you’ll have to get used to,” she said sharply.

She went on, daintily accepting an imaginary menu, putting a finger to the corner of her mouth as she pondered her imaginary options, peppering the whole act with some rather interesting sighs and coos. And then it occurred to Chummy: Trixie wasn’t leading her on. She actually thought that Chummy’s relationship with Constable Noakes was… how did she say it? “ _Progressing._ ”

From Roedean to Alpin Videmanette, from the Royal School of Needlework to Florence Nightingale, Chummy had lived and studied among hundreds of her female peers. Girls like Trixie Franklin- girls who were not only pretty, but stylish and charming to boot- were often kind to her. Yet there was an undertow of pity. When they inevitably left their female friends behind to go on their dates, the beautiful girls would tell her:

_Don’t worry, Chummy. You’ll have your turn someday! ‘A lid for every pot’ and all that!_

But it was all they could do to keep a straight face.

Trixie Franklin was different. Not only did she believe that Chummy deserved a man; she seemed to think that Chummy was actually capable of seducing one, with a bit of helpful instruction.

She wanted Chummy to look the waiter directly in the eyes as she placed her order. “And say it,” Trixie breathed, “like it’s the _naughtiest_ thing you’ve _ever_ said in your _life!_ Mm!”

Chummy could have given it a go, played it straight. She might have been quite good at it. She spoke fluent French, after all. And Lord knows she’d spent enough time in dorm rooms, watching other girls practice their sashays, sighs, and sotto voci.

But what if she was wrong about Trixie? What if this was all still a joke at her expense?

So Chummy turned it into a joke, before anyone else could. She deliberately placed her hand down too hard on the bedframe, and practiced the right voice with the wrong words:

“Fish and chips, please.” She looked deep into Cynthia’s eyes. “And can you put the vinegar on first?”

“Chummy!” Trixie laughed.

\-----

_July, 1961_

She found Trixie at the phone desk later that afternoon. The smoke from her cigarette hung in a golden swath of sunshine cutting across the hall. Trixie stared into the sluice room, looking miles away; her cigarette hand posed aloft, her magazine abandoned on some middle page. The same sunbeam that made her cigarette smoke into a thing of art also turned her bleach-blonde hair into a halo. It all looked rather like the opening scene of a play, Chummy thought.

She cleared her throat. Trixie broke from her reverie.

“It occurred to me,” Chummy said, “that at Easter, you were telling me all about this sort of James-Dean-looking photographer chap you’d met. I’ve been frightfully inconsiderate, and haven’t asked about him since.”

Trixie tapped her cigarette into the ashtray. “It’s alright, sweetie. There’s nothing to ask about.”

She glided up from the desk chair, (those Keep Fit classes were certainly paying off,) and stepped aside to offer the chair to Chummy. Chummy took one look at the thing- rickety springs, narrow-set armrests, wheels on a hardwood floor- and gave Trixie a pointed look. _No._

“Let’s go in the sitting room. I can hear the phone from there. And I’m pretty sure she’s not back yet…”

Chummy didn’t need to ask who Trixie meant by ‘she.’

“I know what you’re going to say,” Trixie declared. “That I have no claim on the social life of a man who, as of one year and eight days ago, is no longer my fiancé. No longer my anything, actually. And that I’m being dreadfully unfair to that poor little Gilbert girl, who’s probably only been sneaking around to try and prevent exactly this sort of reaction from me.”

“I’ll say no such thing, Trixie. You’re my dearest friend, and as such I’m obligated to take your side in any argument: no matter how ridiculous.”

Chummy held out a set of toe separator sponges, and a bottle of nail lacquer from Trixie’s nightstand that matched the pink of the camellias on her sundress.

“Does the offer of a pedicure still stand?”

“Of course it does.”

Trixie helped Chummy across the settee, then sat down and pulled Chummy’s feet onto her lap. They were quiet at first; Trixie was focused on applying the nail lacquer ‘just so’. Chummy observed the faintest of lines around Trixie’s mouth, beneath her eyes, and between her brows. They certainly weren’t from poor skincare, nor were they from fatigue. They were age lines, pure and simple.

She didn’t dare mention the lines to Trixie. She couldn’t articulate the affection, even admiration, inspired by the sight of them. Trixie was still a beautiful woman; but she was older than in 1957, and so much wiser. Breaking up with Tom, joining Alcoholics Anonymous- last year had been dreadfully difficult for her. But it had tempered her; it taught her to honor her own limits, to care for herself even as she continued caring for the women of the East End.

It occurred to Chummy that Trixie was now the longest-serving lay-nurse at Nonnatus; she’d been here for six years.

“I imagine, if you weren’t on-call, you’d have much more exciting plans for a Saturday evening than painting a set of toes whose owner can’t even see them,” said Chummy.

Trixie smiled. “Don’t be silly. There’s nowhere I’d rather be. Besides, it beats my social outing last night.”

“Well how so?”

“I went to an engagement party at a pub down near Heywood’s Paints. The son of one of my district patients got his girlfriend in the family way. He was all set to go to Durham this autumn- ‘first on our street’ to go to university, his mother said. Of course, now it’s stuff Durham: get married, get a job at Heywood’s, provide for the family.”

“He’s doing the right thing,” Chummy observed. “My girls at the mother-and-baby home weren’t as fortunate as his fiancée.”

“Yes, but it was still rather sad. His future father-in-law gave him a _factory jumpsuit_ for a gift, while the pub all sang ‘Waiting at the Church’. And this… this _boy,_ was practically struck dumb with fear.”

Chummy understood. Trixie’s modus operandi was to provide comfort via irreverent, sunshiny cheer. In this young man’s case, however, that would only pour salt on the wound. Trixie would have felt woefully ill-equipped to help; and that was a terrible feeling for a nurse.

Trixie shook her head at herself. “But enough about that. Did I tell you that Fred Buckle’s got a book running on your baby? Smart money says it’s a girl this time.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“I tried to confront him,” Trixie said, her warm bubbly giggle creeping into her voice. “Naturally, he had no shame. He wouldn’t apologize; he only offered to cut you and Peter in on the profits!”

They had a good chuckle. And that’s when Chummy decided to tell Trixie. It would have been more prudent to wait until Baby was born, but Chummy thought she’d burst with anticipation before then. She’d been planning this gift since she was carrying Freddie.

“Speaking of: if Baby’s a girl, I’d quite like to call her Beatrice. …What say you to that?”

Trixie was so astonished, she set the nail lacquer down on the coffee table without even screwing the lid back on. “Beatrice?” she half-whispered.

“With a C-E instead of an X; I do prefer the Classical spelling. And we’d call her ‘Bea’, to avoid any confusion. But she would be named in your honor, make no mistake.”

“In my honor?...” Trixie blinked hard. She was on the verge of laughing and crying all at once. “Oh, sweetie. The honor would be all mine!”

“You absolutely deserve it, Trixie. I meant what I said earlier.”

A proper embrace would have required strategic effort. So Chummy simply reached out and squeezed Trixie’s hand.

“You truly are my dearest friend.”


	6. So Meree Raanee (Pt. 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse of what it was like for Chummy to grow up with six brothers - and why she was so touched by Sister Monica Joan's gift of a rag doll.

_Torquay, Devon, England: July 1932_

“Al! Give her BACK! AL!”

Seven-year-old Alastair Fortescue Cholmeley Browne- better known as Al- lit off across Abbey Park. Two of his older brothers fanned out in front of him, like footballers preparing for a pass. Tailing close behind him was his only sister, Camilla- better known as Chummy.

“ASHA’S _MINE!_ ” Chummy shrieked. “AL!”

Asha was the rag doll currently clenched in Al’s sweaty hands. She had simple brown buttons for eyes, a thin line of pink thread for a mouth, and twine for hair. Her body was plain calico. But she was well-attired, permanently stitched into a lehenga choli made of rani pink silk scraps. To Chummy, she was the most beautiful thing in the world. More than that, in fact.

“She’s my _babyyy!_ ” Chummy wailed, still running.

 _“My baby!”_ the boys simpered, mocking her. “Wah, wah! My baby, my _baaabyyy!”_

Chummy’s eyes stung with hot tears of anger and shame. Her vision blurred; she never even saw the tree root that ensnared her large feet. She fell with such force that her first baby tooth- which had barely been loose- was knocked into the back of her mouth.

Al heard Chummy sobbing and coughing on the ground behind him. He looked back over his shoulder, hesitating.

“Here, Al!” coached twelve-year-old Percival. (Better known as Puddle.) “Give it here! There’s a good lad!”

Chummy spat out the tooth and wiped her eyes. Then she looked up- just in time to see Puddle hurl Asha into the tallest Torbay palm in the park.

She screamed.

Reginald Julian Fortescue Cholmeley-Browne IV, (“Jules,”) the eldest sibling at fourteen, had been hanging back from the childish hullabaloo. Likewise, the other nursemaids in the park had minded their own business until now. The Fortescue Cholmeley Brownes’ ayah certainly had her hands full, with the six boys and the girl; still, she was managing admirably.

But that all changed now that there was a little girl screaming herself blue, with leaves in her hair, mud on her flounce, and blood on her knees, hands, and face.

The other nursemaids circled in, their curious charges trailing behind them. Chummy and her ayah found themselves in the eye of a storm of handkerchiefs and helping hands. There were questions, suggestions, and ample tut-tutting. In Mandarin, Hindi, English- there was even a smattering of Cornish in the mix.

Meanwhile, Jules took charge of his brothers. The littlest two watched wide-eyed while he cornered the three offenders beneath the Torbay palm. Jules pointed up the tree, and in his best aspiring-prefect voice he ordered:

“Percival Fortescue Cholmeley Browne! You are to fetch your sister’s doll immediately!”

“But it was all Bertie’s idea!” Puddle blurted.

Ten-year-old Bertram blustered: “It was Al that grabbed it!”

Al was a coward too, but at least he was honest. “It’s too high!” he whined. “I’ll freeze with fright before I’m halfway up!”

Jules pinched the bridge of his nose- not because his head hurt, but because it was what the professors at Eton did when the boys were being tiresome. He kicked the base of the tree, and found it sound and sturdy. The brothers had summered in Devon before, and Jules had some experience climbing Torbay palms. The lack of low branches was a bit of a challenge, but the cork-textured bark made it easy to gain traction. Jules had gotten twenty-five feet off the ground in one of these things last summer.

The doll was at least forty feet up, though. Just his bally rotten luck.

“I shall be sending a strongly-worded letter to Pa,” he growled.

“Alright, ladies, break it up!” barked a policeman. The ayahs, amahs and au pairs of the park parted with a rush of long cotton skirts. At their center was a gray-haired ayah kneeling before a young girl. The officer guessed the girl to be eight or nine years old, going by her height. The ayah had a damp washcloth, and she was cleaning what appeared to be blood from the girl’s face. All the while, they murmured to each other in some native language.

“English?” he asked.

“I am Rajputani,” the ayah said, her voice steady and her accent clear. “But she is English, yes.”

He scowled at her little quip. “Where is the child’s mother?”

“She is resting at the hotel.” The ayah didn’t take her eyes off the girl. “I can give you the address if you like.”

“Don’t tell Mater!” the girl blurted. “She’s unwell and she mustn’t worry. It’s only a doll in a tree.”

The girl clearly cared more than she was letting on, but she gulped back her tears bravely. She reminded the policeman of his eldest granddaughter- even though little Lizzie had blonde curls and chubby cherub’s cheeks, while this child had flat mousy hair and a long, doleful face.

He leaned down to her level. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Camilla.”

“Are you hurt, Camilla?”

“It was only a baby tooth,” the ayah reported. “She fell and knocked it out.”

Camilla nodded, then bared her teeth to show him. One of her top front teeth was missing.

The officer squinted. “Are you certain that it was a baby tooth, ayah? She’s too old to be losing the front ones.”

“I’m this many,” said Camilla. She held up only six fingers! The ayah registered the officer’s shock with a wry grin.

“They grow like bamboo, this family. Those are her brothers over there, by the big tree.”

The officer turned to look. Halfway up the park’s oldest Torbay palm was a lanky youth, probably taller than the officer himself. Just then a stiff gust blew in off the Channel. The tree swayed; the youth stopped still; a gaggle of boys cheered from below. Something small and reddish-pink glimmered in a high branch.

“ _Jules!_ ” Camilla wailed.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” said the officer. “You be brave for your dolly Jules. Mummies are always brave for their babies.”

“Jules is the boy, not the doll!” the ayah snapped. “Make yourself useful and fetch a ladder!”

The policeman set off. Of course, by the time he reached the firehouse, he’d convince himself the ladder was his idea. 

Chummy and Ayah scarcely noticed his departure. Chummy’s wide, doe-like eyes were fixed worriedly on Jules, while Ayah’s attention was centered on her little girl. She pulled Chummy tight, singing one of her favorite Hindi lullabies.

_“So meree raanee_  
“So meree raanee  
“Tujhako sunaoon ek raaja kee kahaanee…” 

_(Sleep my mother_  
Sleep my queen  
I’ll tell you the story of a king…) 


	7. Fred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to 1961, where an old friend distracts Chummy from the boredom of the maternity ward- and consoles her on missing Freddie.

“What-ho, Fred! Over here!”

Chummy waved to Fred Buckle, handyman of Nonnatus House and friend of all who’d ever lived there. Fred waved back as he walked across the maternity ward. He found Chummy playing cards with two other patients. The middle woman was laid up in bed; Chummy and the third woman were ponderously perched on chairs beside her.

“Got any skin in the game?” he asked.

“Fred. It’s only Happy Families.”

“Yeah, so?”

Fred shrugged, and the movement made a noise- like crinkling paper. Chummy could see Fred had something hidden beneath his waistcoat. He winked at her. _Contraband?_ Chummy found herself hoping it was a snack of some kind. It was rather likely, especially if he’d come straight from Nonnatus House…

“Oh! Forgive my manners. Girls, this is Fred Buckle, an old family friend. Fred, this is Carol and Betty. My fellow inmates.” Chummy giggled at her own joke.

They exchanged pleasantries. Carol gathered up the cards, then got up to greet her own visitors. Chummy scanned the room for Betty’s chap, but to no avail. Betty told him not to miss out on good work at the docks on her account. It seemed he was finally obeying her orders.

“Will you be alright alone, if Fred and I step out to the courtyard?” Chummy asked her.

“Sure I will! Go on,” Betty yawned. “Bring some sunshine back in for me, would you?”

Fred helped Chummy to her feet. “You look a picture, Nurse Noakes,” he said.

 _And what picture is that?_ she thought to herself. _The Arnolfini Portrait?_

“You’re too kind, Fred. And I must say, this is a lovely surprise.”

“Yeah, well, your hubby’s stuck working late today…”

As they made their way out into the corridor, Fred explained:

“When he found out he’d miss visiting hours, Peter rang Nonnatus to make sure someone else’d come see you. ‘Course it’s clinic today and the nurses are all runnin round like chickens with their heads lopped off. So I says to Peter, ‘I’ll go; Vi’s been on me about some complimentary nappy pins she wants to give yer missus.’ I would’ve brought Sister Monica Joan too, but she’s off with the fairies again I’m afraid…”

Fred was just talking to fill the space. Chummy could sympathize; she had the same habit, sometimes. She hoped he didn’t think that he had to justify his presence, as if they weren’t close enough for him to visit on his own account. He was only her firstborn’s namesake, after all.

“Anyways, he had me bring you this. Figured I ought to be discreet on the ward; I know them toxemia girls ain’t allowed nothin nice…”

So there _was_ food in the deal! Fred pulled the bag of nappy pins from his waistcoat, and then a second, larger brown bag. Chummy’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. If it was a bagel with chive-and-onion cream cheese, from that deli that Peter knew she liked so much…

But it was almond toffee. Chummy went a bit green at the sight. So much sugar and butter!

“What’s wrong?” Fred frowned. “Peter said it’s your favorite.”

“Oh, it is!” Chummy forced a gracious smile. One could hardly keep apace of one’s own cravings at this stage, let alone expect others to do so. “Sorry, Fred. Just not peckish, I’m afraid. Perhaps we could share it?”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” he chuckled.

It was a scorcher of an afternoon. Fred ‘oofed’ and wiped his brow, but said nothing about going back in. He saw how Chummy breathed deeper and calmer as soon as they set foot out of doors. They walked back and forth across the north edge of the courtyard, kept cool in perpetual shade. Fred tucked into the toffee, while Chummy took the occasional polite piece.

She turned the package of nappy pins over in her hands. “And how is your lovely bride?” she asked.

Fred pinked with pleasure. “Lovely indeed! We’re still gettin on like a house on fire, Vi and me. And all thanks to you, talkin us out of the last-minute jitters.”

“Oh don’t be silly. You two lovebirds would have sorted it out sooner or later. I merely expedited the peace talks.”

Fred had lost his first wife in the Blitz. From then on, his life revolved completely around his daughters, Dolly and Marlene. But the girls grew up; and poor Fred grew restless and lonely. When Chummy was at Nonnatus, Fred once bought a sow with the intent of going into the bacon business- except then he got too attached. When they found out that “Evie” was expecting piglets, Fred recruited some of the Nonnatans to moonlight as veterinarians. He’d been terribly worked up about it all. During Evie’s labor, Chummy had heard him say that this pig was the only creature that needed him anymore.

It wasn’t true, of course. The Nonnatans needed Fred. They would become all too keenly aware of that need a few years later, when his prenuptial falling-out with Violet caused him to neglect the convent’s chimneys for a week in November.

The funny thing was, Violet didn’t need Fred at all. Like Fred, she was a war widow who had brought up her children alone. But unlike Fred, Violet had a steady, successful business. Her haberdashery was famous throughout the East End. It was also the cause of the couple’s brief rift. Fred’s daughter Marlene had insinuated to Violet that her ever-scheming father saw the shop as a “main chance.”

Chummy had thought it frightfully childish of Marlene, to try and sabotage another’s happiness out of jealousy or grief. But it hardly mattered now. She had urged Fred to go to his lady; they reconciled; and now they were happier than they dreamed they’d ever be again. For it was one thing to be needed; it was quite another to be loved.

As they polished off the toffee, melted chocolate getting everywhere, Fred and Chummy chatted about the haberdashery. Apparently poor Vi’s back had gone out recently, and Fred tried to sub in as “hubby dasherer” while she convalesced. This produced more amusing anecdotes than profits. But then, as with many of his ventures, Fred didn’t seem to mind much.

Conversation soon migrated to Fred’s daughters, Violet’s children, and the couple’s growing collection of grandchildren.

“We’ve got six on Vi’s side now, and three on mine- though with Marlene in the family way again, it’ll be four by Christmas. So ten altogether,” Fred beamed. “We count ‘em all as if they were both of ours. Vi’s grandkids’ve started calling me ‘Granddad’, and mine call her ‘Nan.’”

“As well they should,” Chummy proclaimed.

“And how’s your Freddie, eh? I ‘eard Peter’s parents are lookin after him.”

“Yes. Summering in Walton-on-the-Naze, the lucky little chap.”

Their easy banter suddenly stopped. Chummy clasped her hands around her tum- hugging Baby, as it were. Remembering when Freddie was this close, and not a hundred miles away.

“This is only the second time, in Freddie’s entire life, that he and I have been apart for longer than a single night,” she said quietly. “I keep thinking of when your Dolly was in the Poplar maternity home. How I used to wheel her to the window at eleven o’clock each morning, so that she could see her Anthony in your arms… What I wouldn’t give for that.”

She sniffled. Fred offered her the last chocolate-free corner of his handkerchief.

“You must miss him to pieces,” he observed. “But that’s a good thing, innit? ‘Cos it means you love him to pieces.”

Such kind words from a kind man! It caused Chummy to think back on the day that Dolly’s second child was born. (Which, incidentally, would later become the night that Freddie was born.) Fred had held his new granddaughter, marveling at her ten perfect toes. And he’d told Chummy how his difficult childhood made him resolve to do better as a parent.

_“I grew up in me bare feet. My dad spent more on beer than he did on shoe leather. I used to think: When I ‘ave kids I’m gonna give ‘em shoes. Hot dinners. Happy home.”_

It had occurred to her then, that Fred may have overheard her fretting to Peter a few days prior. Here they were, freshly back from abroad, their savings depleted, about to bring their baby ‘home’ to a spare bedroom in a crumbling convent. Whether Fred had known of Chummy’s anxieties or not, something compelled him to remind her of what children truly needed from their parents. Simple comforts and care. Proximity. Love. The rest was just gravy.

How did John Bowlby ever get a book deal for his attachment theory, when much the same wisdom was available, free of charge, from an East End handyman?


	8. So Meree Raanee (Pt. 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chummy makes a new friend on the maternity ward. The next Noakes has a difficult arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations are offered in-text except where they would interrupt the flow of the story. All translations are based on internet research, and all errors are my own. (I don't speak Hindi, Punjabi, or Arabic.)
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to my mom, whose 'song that kept her going' through a high-risk pregnancy was Bobby McFerrin's "Don't Worry, Be Happy." (Don't laugh you guys, it was 1988!) I love you, Mom. I'm glad we both made it.

It seemed every woman on the ward had a song or two that kept her going. Especially the toxemia patients. The sedative regiment made them dozy, even silly sometimes. They were young and on strict bed rest, and for these reasons the other patients doted on them. They were fighting for their lives, and their babies’ lives, just by keeping calm. Chummy and the others saw it as their duty to arm these girls with the cheeriest tunes possible. Betty from the card game liked Bobby Darin’s “Beyond the Sea.” Marilyn, who was in the bed next to Chummy’s, favored “Wonderful World” by Sam Cooke.

Chummy had been on the ward for nine days and four hours, (but who was counting?) when a young Indian woman came in. A veritable posse of female relatives helped her get settled in the bed two spaces down from Chummy’s. Chummy thought to go over and say ‘namaste’. Then she noticed they were speaking Punjabi, not Hindi. The languages were mutually intelligible, but only to a certain extent. It was rather like Italian and Portuguese- if Portuguese were a tonal language, and the Italian-speaker was thirty years rusty.

But late that night, when the visitors were gone and the ward was trying to sleep, Chummy looked over and saw the woman trembling, with her face in her hands. She let out a quiet, dry sob.

Chummy grabbed her spectacles and clambered out of bed. Her rusty Hindi would have to do.

“Kya tum theek ho?” (Are you alright?)

The young woman stared. It must have been a shock, being addressed in a not-quite-right language by some strange, enormous Englishwoman.

“Do you speak English?” Chummy continued in Hindi.

“No.”

“Hindi?”

“Some.”

“Are you alright? Do you need something?”

The young woman’s face began to crumple. She spoke rapidly, first in Hindi but then slipping into Punjabi, her voice shaking and fragile. Chummy only caught a few words. _Mother. Thirsty. Afraid._

Chummy eased herself into a chair beside the bed. A night nurse came over, smiling with relief. “You speak her language?”

“Not quite, but we have a working lingua franca,” Chummy addressed the girl. Then, to the nurse: “Phir? Dheere se? Hindi mein?” (Again? Slowly? In Hindi?)

Only when the nurse chuckled did Chummy realize she’d gotten it backwards. Insomnia had her losing her bally mind…

“I think she’s only homesick, and thirsty, but please don’t take my word for it,” Chummy told the nurse.

The nurse sighed and examined the clipboard from the end of the bed. “She can have ice chips, but that’s all. Tell her that, and try to explain that we’re going to check her BP and temperature. It was about time for her next check, anyway.”

Of course. She was young, on restricted fluids and under medical hypervigilance. The poor dear was in for toxemia.

Chummy spoke halting Hindi, searching for words: “Nurse bring little water. You drink. Nurse, erm… look you and Baby are well. It… no hurt. Good?”

The young woman nodded.

“What is your name?”

“Neha. What is your name?”

“Camilla.”

“Kaimilah.” Neha took Chummy’s hand. “Dhanyavaad.” (Thank you.)

“First baby?” Chummy asked, though she already suspected the answer.

“Yes. You?”

“Second. I miss first baby. You miss your mother?”

“Yes.” Neha swallowed hard. “She is here. In London. But I am childish.”

“No!” Chummy said softly, her brow furrowed. “Not childish. It’s alright, Neha.”

The nurse was returning, a stark figure out of the deep-sea-colored semi-dark. Her stethoscope glinted in the light above Neha’s bed. There was a loud rip of Velcro as she pulled open a blood pressure cuff. Neha squeezed Chummy’s hand.

“No hurt,” Chummy reminded her. “It’s alright. Brave for baby. Yes?”

“Yes,” Neha whispered.

Chummy let Neha squeeze her hand. With the other, she rubbed Neha’s shoulder. And she began to sing:

_“So meree raanee._  
“So meree raanee.  
“Tujhako sunaoon ek raaja kee kahaanee…” 

\-----

There was a peculiar intensity to women in labor. Nurse Jenny Lee, ever the wordsmith, used to call it an “inward focus.” Chummy was beginning to think there was more to it than that. It was a force of nature, an inescapable pull. It was the protective instinct on highest alert, compelling a woman’s mind and soul to move entirely beyond herself.

Just like contractions, this feeling sometimes came in brief trial periods in the weeks beforehand. One might be able to ignore it, if one kept busy. But in the idleness of a maternity ward, one found oneself daydreaming vividly of being alone with Baby in a lifeboat lost at sea. One might even feel as if one were the dark heavens before God first spoke, and Baby was the as-yet-formless earth wrapped within.

Twice a week, the ward’s supervising physician brought a gaggle of medical students through. The patients had a ten-minute warning to make themselves decent. Chummy made sure to put on her dressing gown and comb her hair. The doctor liked to use her in his teachings: she was “an unusual case, and a good sport.”

“Mrs. Noakes is an elderly gravida two, currently at thirty-eight weeks gestation,” he’d address his clipboard-wielding minions, his back turned to Chummy. “BP and temperature are normal. Mother and baby’s heart rates are fine. Fundal height’s a bit on the high side, but then, you may have already guessed that big babies run in this family.”

The students would chuckle. Chummy would smile gamely. She scarcely heard the joke at her expense. She formed a circle with her arms, wrapping around her bump.

“She’s not on bed rest and, having turned thirty-five last month, she barely qualifies as elderly. So who can tell me why Mrs. Noakes’ G.P. wanted her ‘under close observation and within shouting distance of an operating theatre’ from thirty-seven weeks on?”

 _Pay them no mind,_ Chummy would think, willing the thought to Baby. _We’re doing splendidly, little one._

Sooner or later, one of the students would ask about Mrs. Noakes’ first delivery. The doctor would point and grin in approval; he even called out ‘Bingo’ once.

“Three years ago, Mrs. Noakes had a placental abruption during first-stage labor. The baby was safely delivered via cesarean section.”

_Do you hear Doctor, sweetheart? Your big brother was safe in the end. You will be, too. I promise._

“Who can tell me the especial risks Mrs. Noakes faces this time?” the doctor would ask. The hands would fly upward.

“Uterine rupture?”

“There is an increased risk during labor after a cesarean, yes. Anyone else?”

“A second placental abruption?”

“Yes, yes, of course…”

“Placenta previa?”

“Naturally, Mr. Jones.”

“Placenta accreta?”

“Yes! Good answer, Mr. Wallace. Since I’m sure you’ve all read chapter eleven, you will know that placenta accreta is an abnormal fusion of the placenta with the uterine wall. It is quite rare, but Mrs. Noakes is at increased risk due to her age, past placental problems- and most significantly, her cesarean scar.”

 _But we’re safe now, little bean. Nurse heard your heartbeat just this morning. I can feel you moving now,_ Chummy smiled at her middle. _Everything’s all tickety-boo and marvelous, isn’t it?_

“How does one proceed in a case like Mrs. Noakes’?”

“Immediate bed rest in the case of light bleeding,” one student would volunteer.

“Emergency cesarean for heavy bleeding,” another would say.

“And shall we schedule a cesarean?” the doctor would ask.

“No.”

“Because…?” he’d hint.

“The patient might not need one, if the placenta is normal this time. And we increase the risk of a future placenta accreta with each cesarean delivery.”

“Which is a serious issue because…?”

It was at this point in the lecture that the students would become suddenly, painfully aware of Chummy’s presence. They knew the answer, but pity made them hesitate to speak it.

“Because placenta accreta is life-threatening. …And the standard course of treatment is hysterectomy.”

\-----

She had seen Pa and his servants come home limping and dazed after a tiger hunt gone wrong. She had huddled in the basement of Roedean during air raids, reciting Psalm 123 with the matron to try and calm the younger students. As a midwife she had borne witness to poverty and abuse, to stillbirths, to seemingly-healthy infants who died in their cribs overnight. She had held the girls at the mother and baby home after they said their goodbyes, smelling of Epsom salt and dried breastmilk, racked with tortured sobs.

Dreams and memories of these things could not faze her. Only two reminisces could pull Chummy from her bed, panting and pacing. The first was her earliest weeks at Roedean: hating the cold damp and the bland food, smarting from the ‘discipline’ when she was caught speaking Hindi, crying into her rag doll and asking God why Mater didn’t want her anymore.

The second was her labor with Freddie.

She had a dream one night. She was six years old again. She had an accident in her bed at Roedean. The other girls shrieked with laughter, a cackling chorus of demons. The matron descended, wrenching Chummy out of bed by her arm…

She awoke to a feeling of sticky warmth on the underside of her nightie. Utterly mortified, her mind stuck in the past, she thought to sneak off to the loo without anyone noticing.

But when she stood, the room lurched like a ship’s stateroom in a storm.

She heard a scream. “Narasa! _Narasa!_ Kaimilah!”

“Mrs. Ghai!” the night nurse snapped. “Back in bed. _Now!_ ”

Neha didn’t listen. Chummy felt Neha’s arm wrap around her own. Together they sat back down heavily on the bed. Chummy’s head felt like it kept tumbling back and back, down and down…

Neha put her hand over Chummy’s, and placed them both on Chummy’s stomach. She began reciting – pleading: “Bismillah. Bismillah. Bismillah. Atlub alhimayat fi quat Allah…”

 _I know you’re praying. Thank you,_ Chummy wanted to say. But she could only groan- and try not to scream. The pain was unrelenting. If normal contractions peaked and then receded, like waves on the shore, then this felt like floodwaters breaching a crumbling dam… She had felt this pain once before…

“She’s bleeding!” called the nurse, from a million miles away. “We need sodium thiopental and oxytocin! _Move,_ Mrs. Ghai!”

“Tum theek ho, Kaimilah.” Neha squeezed her hand. _You’re alright._

The nurses ushered Neha out of the way, then pulled Chummy’s long legs back onto the bed. Chummy was white and shivering, her breath ragged, her eyes flickering. Neha could only just reach out and brush her hair from her forehead, before the nurses wheeled her away.

As a nurse helped her back to her own bed, Neha hugged her middle, took a deep breath, and shakily sang to herself:

_“So meree raanee…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations not in text:
> 
> 'Narasa' is Punjabi for "Nurse."
> 
> Neha's prayer is in Arabic, and the beginning of Muslim prayer for healing: “In the name of God (3x). I seek refuge in the might of Allah…”


	9. Amen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never fear, friends! All will be well.

_June, 1961_

Today was the summer solstice. London spent nearly two hours awash in a slow, rosy sunrise. Peter and Dave were finishing off a graveyard shift; they walked briskly up and down Commercial Road. Dave was only trying to stay awake. Peter was willing the cool river breeze to bring him back into focus. Though his will wasn’t at its strongest today.

It had been an uneventful shift, affording him plenty of chances to daydream. Early on, he’d thought about all the family. How Mum and Dad were just tickled about their upcoming holiday with Freddie. How Freddie felt the same- although his tune was sure to change when Peter and Camilla drove off and left him there. (Poor lad.) How Peter’s older sister and his brother-in-law used to rib him for being an old bachelor; and nowadays, they were coming round with hand-me-down toys for Freddie, and a brand-new bassinet from Marks & Spencer.

Peter thought about how excited they all were to meet this baby. The nursery preparations. The name ideas. The times when Camilla, somehow still a tad shy, took his hand to her middle so that he could feel the baby move.

As the shift dragged on, his thoughts swirled closer and more intensely around Camilla. He saw her dark, soulful eyes and sweet, disarming smile. He heard the melody of her voice, the spilling-over of mirth in her laughter. He could almost feel her long, strong fingers laced in his own, or the softness of her hair. He meditated on her gentle strength, the generosity of her body and her soul. She had given him more than he’d ever dreamed of…

By the time the sun turned from pink to gold, the day was gearing up to be white-hot. The macadam was shimmering on Peter’s drive home. He found Camilla in the garden behind the cottage. She swayed gently as she walked, in a slow dance for two. With one hand she held the watering can over the roses; with the other she hugged her belly. She had shed her dressing gown on a patio chair, and strolled about only in her nightie and slippers. She was singing a lullaby- one in English, this time. Perhaps she’d picked it up from the children’s matinee at the local cinema with Freddie.

_"Two and two are four._

_"Four and four are eight._

_"Eight and eight are sixteen._

_"Sixteen and sixteen are thirty-two…"_

“Is Bea gonna teach maths when she grows up?” Peter blurted.

It was bad enough that he made a joke when he’d wanted to say something tender. But worse yet, he startled her; she dropped the watering can. The water began to seep into her slippers. She gasped and kicked them off.

“Oh! Peter! I’ve scarcely slept… and now I look a complete savage…”

“It’s all my fault,” he said, stooping down to the fetch the can.

“No no, don’t be silly…”

She gasped again. As Peter stood up, Camilla pulled him tight against her. He was starting to worry that she was in pain, when she whispered:

“Mrs. Dabney’s just let Cherry Pie out to do her morning unmentionables. _Hide me until they go back in._ ”

“You’re serious?” he gaped. “I’m to just stand here as your human shield til that yappy git finishes her-“

“Shh!”

Sleep deprivation, and the utter silliness of the situation, caught up with them both. They dissolved into giggles against each other. Standing with his head on her shoulder, Peter couldn’t help but notice:

“You’re not half tan. Been spending a lot of time out here?”

“Quite. Although,” she sighed, “one suspects that this complexion is as much to blame on hormones as on horticulture.”

“Now who said anything about blame?” he murmured.

When they were this close, he had to look up to kiss her. But that was perfect, he thought. Like turning one’s face up to bask in the sun.

\-----

_Three Weeks Later_

He sat at her bedside, waiting for morning. Morning was when she’d woken up after Freddie. Morning would improve her color, surely. These ghastly hospital lights made liars of his eyes. She couldn’t be _this_ pale. She couldn’t.

He watched her breathing. He had to watch closely, as there was no noise, and no perceptible movement around her nose and mouth. Only the slightest rise and fall of her chest.

He wanted to take her pulse, continually, until she stirred. But he had to hold the baby. He couldn’t bring himself to relinquish to the nursery down the corridor. Right now Peter needed this hope, this light in the darkness: to have their child squirming in his arms, pink and gurgling, breathing with his whole tiny being.

He would give Camilla the baby soon. She had woken up for Freddie, when Sister Julienne coaxed Peter to place their child beside her for the first time. This new baby would work the same magic; he was sure of it. He just had to wait until she was ready.

He was waiting for morning.

“Peter.”

He looked up. Trixie Franklin and Sister Julienne stood in the doorway.

“How is she?”

 _Worse,_ was all he could think. Worse than last time. After Freddie was born, he’d hoped to never see her so ill again. He never imagined she could be even worse…

“Do you need anything?” Sister Julienne asked.

 _I need her to wake up,_ Peter thought.

“Her cross,” he said. “They must’ve taken it off in the operating theatre.”

He didn’t have to say anything more. They all knew the necklace Camilla wore, with the little gold cross. She would hold it up to her lips and whisper a prayer whenever she needed guidance. Guidance and strength.

“Nurse Franklin,” the nun said gently.

Sister Julienne had come over to Peter's side. But only now did he notice that Trixie was still frozen in the doorway, silent, her long lashes batting frantically.

“Nurse Franklin, would you see about Camilla’s cross?”

Trixie nodded. She turned away with a hand clutched beneath her collarbones. They heard her heels clicking down the quiet corridor.

Sister Julienne set her hand, small and light, against the back of Peter’s shoulder. He looked up. She smiled at the baby.

“I’ve had them ring my parents,” he half-whispered. “They’re bringing Freddie.”

The Sister gasped. “Is she…?”

“No. _No._ We’re just gonna need their help, is all. Camilla-“ He stopped to clear his throat. “She has more to recover from, this time. …They took more out.”

“I see.” Sister Julienne frowned, running a finger along her own cross.

“Doctor says I shouldn’t tell her when she first wakes up. ‘Just show her the baby, and tell her she’ll be alright.’”

“Oh, Peter. Perhaps he’s right…”

“He is. I know he is,” Peter said as firmly as he could.

He heard how Sister Julienne’s voice- usually low and husky- was straining high. They’d have none of that now. It was going to be alright. The doctor had said _when,_ after all. Not ‘ _if_ she wakes up,’ but when.

_When._

When?

“He’s beautiful,” Sister Julienne whispered.

They watched the baby sleep in Peter’s arms. Blue predawn light suffused the room. The baby began to gurgle and squirm, putting up his tiny fists as if in protest. 

_Do you miss her?_ Peter wondered. _Do you know she’s still near?_

It happened all at once. Trixie returned. The baby cried. Dawn broke; the first angled rays through the window caught the glass jar hanging by Camilla’s bed. The pending blood transfusion glowed like a ruby.

And then, Camilla opened her eyes.

There was a glimmer of golden light as Trixie handed Camilla’s cross to the nun. “I’ll fetch a bottle,” she said.

Peter stood, gently bumping the newborn up and down in his arms. He saw a word form on Camilla’s colorless lips. But if she made any sound, he couldn’t hear it over their son’s lusty cries.

“ _Baby?_ ”

“He’s right here, Camilla.”

“Try not to move,” Sister Julienne warned her. “Stay lying on your back. Peter will show you Baby.”

The nun shifted the pillows, helping Camilla to turn her head. Peter placed the baby down beside her where she could see.

Camilla could scarcely keep her eyes open- and when she could, they darted and rolled with fatigue. But they kept coming back to her baby.

“ _You’re here._ ”

“Safe and sound,” Peter agreed. “Another boy.”

“A boy?” she croaked.

“Yes.”

Peter felt a catch in his throat. Much as she’d tried not to let on, he knew that Camilla had been pining for a girl this time. And now Peter knew that this had been their last chance…

Meanwhile, Sister Julienne had carefully worked the thin golden chain around Camilla’s neck. The cross was back in its rightful place. Sister offered the benediction:

“May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord make His face to shine upon you, and give you peace.” She smiled and added, “All of you.”

Camilla smiled too. And she whispered: “Amen.”


	10. Myrtle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chummy's mother-in-law helps her on her lengthy recovery.

“You see that, Freddie? Mummy made that.”

“Mummy _made_ dat?” the boy repeated, his blue eyes huge in his little face.

“I did, yes,” Chummy said.

“By yuhsewf?”

“Well. I had a _little_ help.” Chummy smiled at Peter over their son’s head.

“She did a good job, didn’t she?” Peter said.

“Yesh.” Freddie sat and stared for a moment, his lower lip jutted in thought. “How?”

“…How what?”

“How made dat?”

From the far corner of the sitting room, Peter’s father harrumphed behind his evening newspaper. “Explain _that_ to a two-year-old!”

Chummy arched her eyebrows at Peter. _Inspector Noakes makes an interesting point,_ she thought.

She took the little ceramic dish from Freddie’s hands. It was misshapen, with the glaze dolloped on in clumsy blotches. Too small and irregular to be of any use, except perhaps as an ashtray for Inspector Noakes’ cigarettes.

But she had made it- all by herself, except for a few pointers from the night course instructor. That was something, wasn’t it?

“I sat at a big wheel, laid flat on its side,” she told Freddie. “I pressed a pedal and the wheel spun around, very fast. There was a lump of clay on the wheel-“

“Cway?” Freddie asked.

“It’s like putty,” Chummy explained. “One sort of just… pokes at the clay while it spins. One has to be careful not to poke too hard, or else the clay goes flying across the room.”

“And does _one_ speak from experience?” Inspector Noakes snapped his newspaper upright.

“Oh don’t tease her, Walt. She did better than any of us would’ve in our first ever pottery class!”

Myrtle Noakes, Peter’s mum, appeared in the doorway with the fussing baby in her arms.

“Davey!” Freddie shrieked. “Davey, Davey, Davey!”

The baby’s fussing crescendoed to a wail. All four adults shushed Freddie at once. He shuffled around the side of the settee, his eyes cast down on his feet. Chummy felt a pang of sympathy for her older boy. He was only happy to be a big brother, after all.

“I have a very important job for you, young sir,” she said. “Can you hold Mummy’s dish while Mummy takes Davey?”

“Yesh!”

Chummy moved to stand up. Unfortunately, she moved internally too. One shouldn’t be so reckless as to have cauliflower at supper, mere weeks after major abdominal surgery…

Freddie laughed. “Mummy bupped!”

“Frederick Peter Noakes,” Myrtle snapped.

“It’s quite alright,” Chummy murmured, even as heat crept up her face. “If one recalls correctly, rude bodily noises are the height of comedy at his age.”

“And for many years to come, if one is of the male persuasion.”

“ _Walt,_ ” Myrtle warned.

Davey was crying his ‘not hungry, gassy or soiled, merely churlish’ cry. Chummy and Myrtle both knew it well by now. Myrtle handed the baby over with a robust, rhythmic jiggle.

“I’m afraid I’m all caught up on laundry, love. Should I get the swing set up?”

“Tip top idea,” Chummy smiled. “But I’ll try walking him around, and if that fails, we’ll go upstairs to the rocking chair.”

“You’re sure you’re up to it?”

“Positively certain.”

“Only you went out today, and now it’s not half late…”

Chummy was almost glad when she was forced to interrupt her mother-in-law with another indelicate belch. Almost.

She slowly paced the ground floor of the house while bouncing Davey at her shoulder. The wailing subsided, but the baby kept up some grumpy gurgles. _Just so you know I’m still unhappy, Mum._ She didn’t mind. All through her pottery class, she’d ached to come home and hold him.

The walking did her good, besides. And the kitchen was just far enough from the sitting room to put her out of earshot of Freddie. She could relieve her intestinal discomfort without her boy laughing again, or even looking up from _Pinky and Perky._ One of many reasons to be glad they’d moved here.

She and Peter had begun searching for a new house back in June. Chummy had been partial to a small cluster of brand-new tract houses on the northern edge of Poplar, called Drakefield Estate. There were rumors of detached four-bedroom homes planned for the largest lots. For now, the three-bedroom, semi-detached homes were selling like hotcakes.

Peter had been unable to make an offer on a house before Chummy checked into the maternity ward. At that point, she’d put Drakefield Estate out of mind, assuming they’d missed their chance. Then, a few days after she was moved out of critical care, Peter told her they had a shot at one of the last semidetached homes in Drakefield. Peter would sign the papers while Chummy was still in hospital. Family and friends could get them moved in posthaste.

“We’ll have enough room for Mum and Dad to stay with us, instead of in some hostel near the cottage,” Peter told her. “By the time you come home, Camilla, it’ll all be taken care of. You’ll have nothing to worry about. Nothing to do except rest up, and get to know Baby.”

By then, Peter had already broken other news to her. He’d told her what else her operation had entailed. Chummy knew that she would Myrtle, a veteran mum and nan, on hand to help at all hours. She knew she was in for a longer, more difficult recovery than after Freddie’s birth. She knew that her second child would be her last.

She also knew that she was lucky to be alive, and blessed beyond measure to have her beautiful little family and a lovely new home.

Myrtle was watching eagle-eyed as Chummy and the baby completed their third lap around the ground floor. “You say you’re all tickety-boo, love, but you don’t half look exhausted.”

Chummy gritted her teeth. _Right, Myrtle. You win._ “Right-o. I’ll take Baby up to the nursery. Might turn in early, myself, once he’s settled.”

She headed up the staircase. Myrtle followed close behind, like a gymnast’s spotter. Chummy wanted to put a spring in her step, just to show her. But she felt bally awful. Her tum was in turmoil. It felt as if one were attempting to shimmy gravel through loose rubber tubing.

She started to double over halfway up the stairs. Myrtle reached for the baby. Chummy turned around, both to more easily hand off Davey, and to avoid breaking wind right in Myrtle’s face.

“MUMMY FUTTED!”

“Frederick Peter!” The Inspector threw down his newspaper. “Don’t make me get the cooking spoon!”

Freddie began to cry, which set the baby off again. All of that pacing and bouncing had been for naught. Chummy began to cry as well. She sat on a stair, resting her head against the wallpaper. Myrtle stroked her hair as she squeezed past.

“Why am I going to a bally _ceramics_ class?” Chummy moaned. “As if I could spare the beans…”

“You’re going,” Myrtle declared, “because you’re your own person, you deserve to have your own life, and we’re all here to help. Full stop.”

\-----

These days, it was a crowning achievement if Chummy could make it to Victoria Park and back, holding Freddie’s hand across the main roads while Myrtle pushed Davey in the pram. Though it was well worth the effort, for a spot of fresh air and sunshine. And she delighted in watching Freddie totter around the playground, beaming, telling anyone who would listen:

“I got a bruvver! Davey! Wanna see?”

“I was about Freddie’s age when the Tiggers were born,” she told Myrtle one day as they sat on a park bench, taking turns nudging the pram back and forth.

“The Tiggers?”

“My younger brothers. They’re twins,” Chummy explained. “They’re called Thaddeus and Gerald, which quickly devolved to ‘T and G,’ and then ‘tag’ or ‘tig’. Once _The House at Pooh Corner_ finally reached our home library in Jaipur, I’m afraid their fates were sealed.”

Myrtle chuckled. She’d never get used to the posh custom of bizarre nicknames.

“Family lore has it that our poor Ayah, up to her ears in nappies, paid the gardener’s son four anna per day to run me around the grounds like an overexcited hound. Otherwise I was liable to just stand at the bassinets, dancing and squealing, waking the babies.”

“And how much is four anna?” Myrtle asked.

“Just enough for samosas from a street vendor. Oh, they’re the tastiest little hand pies. Throw in a bit of mint chutney and they’re positively irresistible.”

“I know what samosas are,” Myrtle said reproachfully. “We’ve got a new Indian restaurant up in Walton-on-Naze. Walt didn’t want to try it, but I dragged him there. He ended up liking it better than I did!”

Myrtle was delightful company, really, when she and Chummy could talk about something other than spit-up and nappies. Chummy especially liked hearing about what Myrtle called her ‘Adventures with Pensioners’. She still didn’t see herself as one of the ‘little old ladies’, even after three years in a resort town. She’d tried starting a Frisbee club for dog owners. And a Keep Fit group exclusively for women over sixty. She attended Bingo and bridge religiously, but only because the very oldest players depended on her to double with them, lending them her eyes and ears.

Mater would call Myrtle’s personal style “gauche.” (This wasn’t conjecture; Mater had stated as much at Chummy’s wedding reception.) But Chummy thought that Myrtle was positively vibrant. On a typical day she wore floral blouses, culottes, and spectacles with hot-pink cats-eye frames. Her wavy bobbed hair was left undyed, salt-and-pepper. She liked to go dancing, and kept up on the cinemas and pop radio stations. Chummy once caught her lulling Davey off to sleep with ‘All I Have To Do Is Dream’ by the Everly Brothers.

“I know Walt don’t let on,” she told Chummy. “But it means so much to him that you’re using his name for Davey’s middle name.”

“But of course. Pa’s already got three grandsons carrying his. And I’m quite sure he’d want me to prioritize the paternal grandfather, regardless.”

“Gladys and Mike always said they’d do him the honor, with their next boy. ‘Course, after their Johnny it was just a string of girls! Goes to show you how things work out in the end, though, don’t it?”

“Yes,” Chummy said softly.

She watched an afternoon thunderstorm building in the distance. Myrtle reached over and squeezed her hand.

“We’ve got Davey’s dress for the christening sorted. But what about yours? I thought we might leave the boys with Peter on his day off, have a look in Marks and Spencer, just you and me. Have you seen the new Horrockses line?”

“I have. Oh and they’re quite spiffy, really,” Chummy smiled. “But I’m afraid I already have my outfit planned.”

“Do you?”

“I’ll be wearing the skirt suit that I wore at Freddie’s christening- and at my wedding.”

“But that’s Crimplene, innit? Not half warm for September.”

“Crimplene’s also rather forgiving, which will come in handy with this tum,” Chummy half-whispered. “Besides, off-the-rack dresses tend to… come up short, for me. But we had the skirt suit tailored.” She added brightly: “It’s a Norman Hartnell, actually.”

“Oh. _Well_ then.”

Myrtle brushed down the front of her blouse and then straightened the collar. Her lips had gone thin, and she avoided Chummy’s eyes. With dismay, Chummy realized what she’d just sounded like.

Or rather, _whom_ she’d just sounded like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title has changed since ff. This is the same chapter content as "Chapter 10: The Crimplene Conundrum" over there.
> 
> I loved creating the character of Myrtle! I picture her kind of like Julie Walters in "Mamma Mia!" Also, I have a headcanon that Peter Noakes and Valerie Dyer are cousins; in this headcanon, Val's "Auntie Florrie" and Myrtle are sisters. I hope this helps readers to picture her. :-)


	11. The Crimplene Conundrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprising revelation turns Myrtle from household drill sergeant, to Chummy's comrade-in-arms.

That evening, Peter took a deep breath and announced: “Dad told me, to tell you, that Mum thinks, that _you_ think, that you’re too good for Horrockses.”

Chummy set down her bedtime reading with unneeded force. “Oh, bally botheration! I never should have mentioned Hartnell. And I meant ‘come up short’ in the literal sense!”

“Camilla. Don’t shoot the messenger, alright?”

“Sorry.”

“Look, I’m sure it’s nothing,” Peter said kindly. “Mum’s an easygoing sort. And she knows you’re no snob. This’ll all blow over by morning.”

The next morning, Freddie plopped his Silly Putty on the middle of the Lazy Susan and began spinning it as fast as he could. Myrtle and Chummy laughed when they realized what he was trying to do.

“I daresay we have a second amateur potter in the family!”

“We ought to get him some plasticine from M&S.” Myrtle paused, then added loftily: “That is, unless you wanted to special-order him some Italian porcelain clay.”

The comment stung. Yet they both carried on as if nothing had happened. Myrtle cleared the breakfast dishes while Chummy fed, burped, and changed Davey. Myrtle rinsed the used nappies through while Chummy made a grocery list. Myrtle and Freddie hung the laundry out on the line while Chummy tended to Davey again, dozing off right along with him. She awoke to the sound of Myrtle making Peter lunch before his evening shift. 

Chummy placed Davey back in his crib. Before joining the others downstairs, she tiptoed over to her bedroom to try on the Crimplene skirt suit.

She knew she had to get things sorted; the christening was this Saturday. But she’d been putting it off until now. She was afraid the skirt suit wouldn’t fit.

 _Travel hopefully, old girl,_ she told herself. _Even if it’s all a wash, nil desperandum. One could hardly be blamed for falling a bit on the podgy side at a time like this. And a new dress would at least facilitate a truce with Myrtle._

But the skirt suit fit like a dream. Well at least, it fit like it had at Freddie’s christening. Snug in a few places- but the jacket, the waist sash, and the stretch of Crimplene covered a multitude of sins. Her hopes restored, Chummy daydreamed her way through the afternoon.

She didn’t have her heart set on this skirt suit for the designer name, or even for the comfortable fabric. Her reasons were far more personal. She’d had to scramble for an outfit for Freddie’s christening- her resources depleted by the mission trip and her first cesarean recovery. When she’d landed on her wedding outfit, she unwittingly set a precedent. The skirt suit was her ceremonial robes now. The designated outfit for whenever it came time to stand before God and Poplar, to let it be known:

_This is the family that I am building. This is someone that I love, coming into my life on the deepest, most binding of levels. And I rejoice._

They all took lunch together. Then Peter got ready for work, while Inspector Noakes went out back to pull the weeds. Chummy cleared the lunch dishes while Myrtle hovered. Chummy was still under doctor’s orders not to lift anything heavier than Davey, and Myrtle wasn’t convinced that the largest frying pan made the cut.

Later, Myrtle and Freddie went to the grocer’s while Chummy tended Davey again. When they returned, Chummy read Freddie some Dr. Seuss before his nap. Myrtle started the roast for supper. At teatime, Davey was fussing again. As she gave him his gripe water, Chummy thought of sneaking a bit for herself.

Her limbs felt like lead, her tum was heavy and tender, and her brains may as well have been packed with steel wool. Another late-afternoon shortage of beans. She knew she might feel this way by the end of the christening, so she decided to try on the skirt suit again. To make sure it would still be presentable at the end of a long afternoon.

It wasn’t. Indeed, the vertical pattern over her tum put one in mind of a striped gourd. Chummy yanked the outfit off, threw it on the chair, and crawled into bed. She kept trying not to think of what Mater would say. How dare she even _think_ that she could pull this off…

She didn’t know how much time had passed when she opened her eyes. She sat up, and saw Myrtle straightening the skirt suit on a hanger.

“I’m sorry, Myrtle.”

“No, it’s me who’s sorry, love,” said the elder Mrs. Noakes.

She hung the skirt suit on the back of the closet door. A place for easy access- or a place of honor.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you this morning. I ought to know you well enough by now. You don’t care a whit about Hartnell; you chose this outfit for the memories, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Chummy said softly. “But I’m afraid our little comedy of errors was all for naught. The bally thing’s too snug.”

Myrtle’s brow furrowed in concern. “What, all over? Or just from the swelling?”

Chummy’s exasperated sigh answered that question. She changed the subject: “How are the boys?”

“Davey’s sleeping. Freddie’s with his Granddad. Roast’ll be done in an hour. I’ll bring you some milk of magnesia and a hot water bottle, see if we can’t get you up and about for supper.” 

Myrtle winked cheerily on her way out the door. Chummy fell back into bed, the Artex ceiling swirling before her tired eyes. She wondered how long they could go on like this.

She could tell that Inspector Noakes was getting bored. The walls had all been painted and papered, the kit furniture assembled, the boxes unpacked. The man had had a job to do, and he had done it. There were only so many sixpences he could pretend to pull out from behind Freddie’s ear, only so many “horsey” rides he could give the young sir, only so many hours he could potter about tending that postage stamp of a garden.

She knew that Myrtle reveled in being Nan- and all the messy, mundane duties that entailed. Myrtle was an absolute brick that way. But how long could one expect her to keep another woman’s house? To hold down the fort for an invalid?

Chummy had hoped her recovery would leap forward two weeks ago, when her lifting restrictions were graduated from the weight of a coffee mug to the weight of her own baby. At least now Myrtle didn’t have to pick Davey up, bring him over, and place him in his seated mother’s arms at every feeding. Still, more evenings than not, Chummy found herself curled up in bed. And Myrtle fussed over her like the particularly compassionate mother of a green-faced teenager on her monthly.

Myrtle returned. Chummy sat up to drink the milk of magnesia. What Myrtle said next nearly caused her to choke on her drink.

“I remember after they took mine out. When I’d been home about a month- like you have now- I’d wake up feeling like my old self. I’d think, _Today’s the day I do everything normal again._ By teatime I’d be done in- and so bloated, you’d’ve thought I was in the family way! Only I was old and gray by then. Must’ve looked like Sarah carrying Isaac,” she chuckled.

“I- After they- What?” Chummy stammered. “Gosh. Myrtle, I hadn’t realized…”

“You wouldn’t have.” The older woman smiled gently. “It was fibroids. Eight years ago: before you and I met, but after Peter was out on his own. To this day, I don’t think he knows.”

She helped Chummy situate the hot water bottle. At one point, she caught her daughter-in-law’s hand in her own and squeezed it.

“Does the skirt suit fit you earlier in the day?”

“Yes.”

Myrtle smiled. “Alright. We’ve got something to work with, then.”

\-----

Myrtle Noakes was a woman with a plan. She would buy a Horrockses dress after all, but only ‘just in case’. She took Chummy’s measurements, (at tea time,) and had her daughter-in-law pick a few favorite styles from the summer catalogue. That way Myrtle could go to Marks & Spencer by herself while Chummy rested up.

 _Rest up! Rest up!_ That was the crux of the plan. Apart from daily constitutionals, Chummy was to take it as easy as the household to-do list and her maternal instincts would let her. Myrtle believed that she had set back her own recovery by pushing herself too hard. From the start, she’d been determined to prevent Chummy doing this same.

(This explained much of Myrtle’s behavior over the summer, actually.)

But Chummy had enough beans- and Peter’s day off afforded them enough time- for one outing together. Myrtle didn’t want to waste it with Chummy trying on dresses she hoped to never need. Instead they went to a salon in West London. For the first time since May, Chummy had bangs again. 

“They frame your face so well!” the stylist effused. “Draw the attention off that high forehead and down to your pretty eyes!”

The manicure afterwards was even more awkward: holding hands with a stranger for forty-five minutes whilst listening to Vivaldi, wondering how Mater had ever enjoyed this as a weekly ritual. But Myrtle was right there, enduring the same treatment. She distracted Chummy with stories of her brother-in-law’s horse farm, where Myrtle and the children had lived during the War.

Myrtle didn’t put much stock in the surgeon’s pamphlets. Where they advised hot water bottles, she had Chummy try ten minutes with an ice water bottle on her tum. “Take it off straightaway if it hurts,” she warned. (On the contrary: it was bliss. Chummy never went back to the hot water bottle again!) The pamphlets said to avoid citrus, but Myrtle served fresh pineapple for dessert in the days before the christening. She insisted there was “other stuff in it that made it helpful, on the balance.” The pamphlets also recommended consuming as little meat as possible. What tosh, Myrtle said!

“How do they expect you to keep your strength up without meat? Eggs? Cheese? Heaven help us, _beans?_ ”

Instead she fed Chummy on plain, boiled chicken, chewed as slowly as Chummy could manage. Even at breakfast on the big day, Chummy had cold chicken, a banana, and a cup of mint tea.

She had another lie-down with the ice, then Myrtle helped her get ready. The skirt suit practically fell into place over Chummy’s figure. Myrtle crowed in triumph.

“See, if those pamphlets were written by women who’d gone through this- or by women at all, I reckon!- it’d be smoother sailing for every poor old girl to have that operation!”

Chummy smiled into the mirror. Her inner glamour puss was making a rare appearance. Then she eyed the “backup dress” laid out across the bed. Myrtle had picked the midcalf-length, scoop-neck sundress with such care. And it was just the right fabric for Chummy: a paisley of tan, royal blue, and eau de nil…

“I say. Even if one were to be a brand snob, one could scarcely thumb one’s nose at Horrockses,” she remarked. “They say the Her Majesty the Queen wears Horrockses for her day dresses.”

“I’ve heard that!” Myrtle smiled down at the backup dress, her hands on her hips.

“What I mean to say is, it was a frightfully thoughtful gesture…”

“Don’t think anything of it, love. You’ve made my Peter so happy, and you’ve been through such a rough spell.”

Myrtle reached up, affectionately brushing imaginary lint off Chummy’s shoulders.

“Far as I’m concerned, you deserve the world,” she declared.

Chummy started to sniffle.

“Oi! None of that now!” Myrtle teased. “I’ve already done your makeup!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've swapped titles since publishing on ff last year. Over there, chapter 10 is called "The Crimplene Conundrum," and chapter 11 "Myrtle Knows Best." Over here, the chapter names have changed but the content has not. Chapter 10 here is the same story as chapter 10 over there; same goes for the chapters 11.


	12. Before God and Poplar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davey Noakes' christening, through the eyes of Chummy's favorite brother.

A man stood waiting outside Poplar’s All Saints Church. He was tall and lean, not yet forty, with tawny, slicked-back hair. His suit was Brioni, his watch and hat Burberrys, his shoes Crockett and Jones. Yet for all his fashion, he wore an air of diffidence. Other attendees passed him on their way in, with looks of skepticism, curiosity, or even flirtation. In return he offered only a bashful, toothy smile, and a plummy “Hello.”

But when he saw Chummy and her family approaching, he straightened even taller and began waving both arms.

“What-ho, Noakes family!”

Freddie broke rank and bolted towards the man, chanting: “Uncle Al! Uncle Al!” He collided with Al’s legs and hugged them.

“There’s my favorite nephew! Actually, sorry: one of my _two_ favorites, now.” Al beamed as Chummy and Peter approached, with the baby in Peter’s arms. “Ah, yes. This must be the man of the hour.”

Al observed the baby’s ten fingers and ten toes, the chubby arms and legs all a-wiggle, the bright and curious eyes. He looked to his sister; she was quite literally pink with pleasure and pride.

“Oh, bravo, old girl. He’s absolutely perfect.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Chummy marveled.

Al cleared his throat. He noticed Peter’s parents, whom he’d met several times now, lingering close by.

“What-ho, Noakes pater- and materfamilias! Shall we round up the others? Get it all done and dusted before the ceremony, what?”

They went inside and tracked down Peter’s sister’s family. Al led the entire clan into a side room off the chapel, where his best camera was set up on a tripod. Al would have gladly brought half the equipment in his studio, but Chummy had insisted on keeping it simple. Their lighting came from the noonday sun through centuries-old windows. Their backdrop was an interior wall with the original stone still exposed. Inspector Noakes and his wife sat on the same folding chairs one assumed were used for potlucks in the parish hall. Al arranged the rest of the family around them like a human bouquet.

“Yes, that’s it, Johnny. Hand on Grandpapa’s shoulder, there’s a good egg. Myrtle, if you please, do sit Baby up a bit straighter. Otherwise one will be able to spy his nappy in the photograph. I’m afraid my sister’s gone overboard with the summer couture of rising hemlines. Haw-haw!”

“Al, you know perfectly well this gown was Freddie’s,” Chummy protested. “And it came down nearly to his ankles.”

“Did it? Gosh! You’ve got a real Fortescue Cholmeley Browne longshanks on your hands this time! Right-ho, jolly good. Final positions. For the grand House of Noakes, ‘one for posterity’, all of that. Bright smiles all around!”

The smiles came easily. The baby was cooing contentedly, Freddie was thrilled to see Al again, and the four cousins were giggling at Al’s manner of speech. A few quick shots, a moment to soothe Davey after all the flashing lights, and they were on their way to the chapel.

Al hadn’t felt at-ease in a church in many years. But that was hardly his dear sister’s fault, and he was more than willing to tough it out for her sake. He took a seat in the back row, alone.

Al’s brothers- with their girlfriends, wives and families- hadn’t turned up. Pa certainly hadn’t come sailing up from Madeira. A large swath of the attendees were nurses and nuns. There was a smattering of Peter’s kin as well. Al recognized some faces from the wedding, or Freddie’s christening. Still, he felt rather a stranger to them all.

If he were like his brothers- politically-minded, or simply bolder- Al would have struck up a conversation with someone. But without the crutch of family, friends, or his profession, he tended to feel adrift in social settings. He and his sister had that in common.

It came time for the parents and godparents to come forward with the baby. The chapel was hushed, the air golden. Chummy gazed down at her little son with a look of quiet and profound joy. Of the many Renaissance Madonnas that Al had to study in art school, a few of his favorites had come close to that expression.

If there was a God, surely He was rewarding Chummy for her devotion to Him, to this community, and to the man she loved. It wasn’t just that she was happy; Al had seen Chummy find reasons to be happy throughout her life. No, this was something more. His sister looked contented and secure, aglow with a sense of belonging.

A miracle for any Fortescue Cholmeley Browne, but especially for her.

“Name this child,” the young curate recited. Chummy smiled out into the congregation. She caught her brother’s eye before turning back to her baby.

“David Walter Noakes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I drafted this in one sitting- which is rare for me, but always a good sign! Al FCB was another original character who was a joy to create. His look and manner are a bit harder to describe, as I didn't draw heavily on a particular actor/character this time. A fanfriend once told me she pictures 'Dreamboat Charlie' from _Miranda_ except a foot taller. THE HORROR! LOL.
> 
> To make a mental picture of Al, I would recommend:
> 
> 1\. Start with a floppy-haired, cartoonishly lanky man, a la Milo in _Atlantis_ or Roger in _101 Dalmations_
> 
> 2\. Add Chummy's speech patterns and general awkwardness
> 
> 3\. Make him almost too gay to function
> 
> That's it. That's Alastair Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne.


	13. Fruit and Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Noakes celebrate their fourth wedding anniversary. There's the cinema of course; the customary whisky; and just a _bit_ of steam at the end. About three kettles' worth, methinks. *wink wink*

Peter and Chummy strolled through Drakefield Estate, humming a waltz from the cinema. Peter gave Chummy a clumsy twirl, and she giggled. He wanted to hear her sing the song’s most repeated, most memorable line. So he scraped his short-term memory for a line that a man could sing without making a fool of himself.

_“See the pretty girl in that mirror there?”_

She blanched. “Oh! Peter…”

“Come on, you remember? _What mirror, where?_ ”

“Cease and desist, Sergeant Noakes, I beg of you,” she said. She was still smiling though. He’d have to leave off at that, or risk losing her smile.

They turned the corner into their street. Chummy stopped short.

“I say. Are we in the right street?”

“I dunno. They all look alike, don’t they?” Peter teased.

She double-checked the nearest street sign. Yes, this was their block… She turned back to their house- and she realized what was different. She noticed Peter trying and failing to hide how chuffed he was. She recalled Patsy, their babysitter for the afternoon, arriving in canvas slacks and plimsolls. It was awfully casual attire, even for Nurse Mount; but then, it was perfect for a spot of gardening…

She played along. “Peter, this cannot possibly be our street. The third house on the left- the one where ours should be- has a charming little shrub by the bay window. We have nothing of the sort.”

“One wonders what sort of flowers it’s got in the spring.” Peter winked. They continued up the street.

“Yes. One does.” Did he actually expect her to guess? She didn’t have _that_ good an eye. For fabrics, yes. Pre- and postnatal complications, definitely. But diagnosing a plain green shrubbery? Not likely.

“Surprise!”

A small parade came spilling out of their front door. First Patsy, then Fred Buckle, then Fred’s nephew Reggie, and at last their own little Freddie. All four had mussed hair, flushed faces, and dirt on their hands and the knees of their slacks. Violet Buckle appeared behind them, standing in the doorway with Davey in her arms.

“Did you organize all this? In secret?” Chummy half-whispered. Peter nodded.

Freddie jumped up and down in front of the new shrub. “Cameewa!”

“I beg your pardon, young sir?”

“The plant,” Patsy explained hastily. “It’s a camellia. Planted, mulched and watered. It has good drainage and partial shade there. With just the usual watering and pruning it should be quite the happy camper.”

“ _Big_ fwowers!” said Freddie. He flung his little arms wide open.

“The camellia gets big flowers? Really? _This_ big?” Chummy threw her own arms wide. Peter narrowly dodged an accidental whack across the chest.

“Yesh,” Freddie insisted. He was so adorably solemn, and now they were standing before each other with open arms. It was only natural she’d scoop him up. Never mind the dirt all over her nice day dress.

“Peter says they’re one a your favorites, camellias,” Fred volunteered.

“They are, rather,” she smiled.

She kissed Peter, on the lips, right there in the garden. Freddie squealed in disgust. (Lately he was becoming a proper little officer of the vice squad, always on the lookout for his parents being ‘yucky.’) The Buckles chuckled. Patsy looked to her plimsolls, her fair face suddenly pink.

But none of that mattered. Not today, at least. After all, it was a day to remember when they had stood before a much larger crowd and shared a similar kiss.

“Happy anniversary, Camilla.”

“Happy anniversary, Peter.”

The hosts treated their gardener-babysitting crew to a well-earned luncheon. Peter set out a sandwich spread across the kitchen counter, while Chummy pulled dessert from the refrigerator and popped it into the oven, just to warm it up. She hadn’t dared to leave the baking until this morning. _Woman’s Own_ had described the recipe’s difficulty as “moderate.” For Chummy that meant days of trial-and-error in advance: scalding butter, over-measuring cinnamon, wrestling apples through the vegetable peeler, scraping burnt failures off the pan until finally, one batch came out absolutely perfect…

“Apple roses!” Vi cooed. “Oh how lovely.”

“Very fitting for four years: the fruit and flowers anniversary,” Patsy pointed out.

“See that, Freddie?” Reggie pointed at the pastries. “They look like flowers. But they’re apple pies!”

Reggie and Freddie giggled together. As dessert was served, Reggie offered to cut Freddie’s apple rose into pieces for him.

Reggie had Down Syndrome. He was a nice young man, very polite, and a skilled gardener. But he was shy, and rather attached to the quiet routine of life in his aunt and uncle’s flat. Chummy was glad to see him and Freddie getting on so well. Especially since the Buckles were going to watch Freddie and Davey overnight tonight.

She packed a hold-all with the boys’ clothes, toys, and supplies. She felt a bit rushed; she hadn’t known the Buckles would already be here when she and Peter returned from the cinema. She fed Davey in the nursery, then prepared some bottles for him. Meanwhile, Peter kept the gang downstairs entertained with his take on the film. Never mind that it was a silly musical. It seemed all of Poplar, men women and children alike, were itching to see the new sensation. Starring the ravishing Natalie Wood, and billed as a modern-day Romeo and Juliet: it was called _West Side Story._

The eight of them strolled down the lane together, parting ways at the edge of Drakefield Estate. Peter and Chummy were on their way to Victoria Park, while the others headed south, back towards central Poplar. Patsy and Reggie distracted Freddie with a game of “I-Spy” while they led him away from his parents. Chummy pulled Davey from his pram. She needed one last cuddle and a whiff of his hair to last her the next sixteen hours.

“He’ll be back before you know it,” Vi said. Chummy knew that Vi was right; and she’d so been looking forward to this time alone with Peter. Still, one couldn’t help but be a bit sentimental.

Peter had brought a picnic blanket. Chummy had packed tumbler glasses, serviettes, and a Tupperware full of berries and figs. Before the park, they stopped in at an off-licence. When Peter bragged that it was their anniversary, the shopkeeper recommended the best whisky on the premises: a 12-year Glenlivet.

“We’ll take your finest Johnnie Walker,” Peter replied.

“Ve Glenlivet’s better,” the shopkeeper grunted.

“We know, but it’s a matter of tradition,” said Chummy.

“Sumfink t’do wiv ‘ow you met, I reckon?”

“Precisely.” The Noakes shared a look and tried not to laugh.

They first met, quite literally, on the streets of Poplar: dazed and bruised, the bicycle wheels still spinning horizontally over the cobblestones. Chummy had suffered delayed shock and a concussion. After four hazy days of recovery, her new colleagues finally informed her that she’d levelled a police constable. Mortified, Chummy had wandered down to the nearest off-licence to purchase an apology. She had asked for Glenlivet, but the shopkeeper had never heard of it. So she’d settled for Johnnie Walker.

Their next stop was take-away fish and chips. Then, finally, they were on to the park. They spread their blanket beneath an old oak tree on the edge of the West Lake. Chummy filled the tumblers straightaway, then popped a few figs and berries into each.

“It adds a ‘refreshing twist’, according to _Woman’s Own._ We’re supposed to let them soak for ten to fifteen minutes,” she explained.

They started on their fish and chips in the interim. When it came time to taste the concoction, Chummy found herself pulling a face.

“Well that’s certainly…”

She meant to say _interesting._ But then she saw Peter trying to hide a grimace just like her own. 

“Ghastly,” she finished. “Positively so.”

“I agree.” Peter coughed. “Good job we’ve still got the rest of the bottle.”

“Yes. Do you suppose this tree would fancy a tipple? Would it be legal to dump our glasses on the roots?”

“Don’t see why not.” Peter studied the sturdy gray branches high above them. “Pretty sure he’s of age.”

Thus the oak had two drinks, and the Noakes gradually finished the bottle. Between sips they leaned back, watching the leaves shudder on the branches or flutter off in the wind. Unburdened with the present, they dreamed of the future. What to get young sir for his third birthday? How to celebrate younger sir’s very first Christmas? Would they go to Walton-on-Naze on next summer’s holiday, or to Peter’s uncle’s horse farm in Wiltshire?

In a few years, when Freddie started school and Davey was no longer a baby, would they have time to go out dancing again? Would Chummy become ‘Akela’ to her own sons’ scout troop? Would she help Peter study for another promotion? When the boys needed help with their studies, who would take which subjects? Peter called dibs on history and citizenship; Chummy felt well suited for geography and French. The rest, they decided, could be sorted out later.

They wandered into the past. To the two-up two-down of Freddie’s babyhood; then back to Sierra Leone; and then, back to when Peter had courted her while she was living with a bunch of nuns.

“You remember that day Sister Evangelina put us on the spot?”

Chummy sighed. “One suspects it’s burned permanently into my memory. I recall wishing desperately for the floor to open up and swallow me whole.”

“ _Constable Noakes,_ ” Peter mimicked snippily. “ _Would you like to take Nurse Browne to the pictures on Friday evening?_ ”

“ _Simple question: yes or no,_ ” Chummy teased. “And then you said yes. So plainly and honestly.”

“You’d’ve thought I’d invited you to the Dorchester, from the look on your face. And you said-“

“I’d love to,” she murmured, running her finger along the knit of his jumper.

Back home, Chummy put away the picnic things while Peter washed up. Then it was her turn. She could feel her heart start to beat faster as she slipped into the bathroom. Makeup freshened. Hair brushed. Milk down the sink. Perfume spritzed. Brand-new nightdress smoothed on with shaking hands. It was a sleeveless gown, cut just above the knees, in silky tea-rose nylon. The lacy bust was shaped.

She stood in the bedroom doorway, trembling in anticipation- and from the chill. Peter looked up slowly, and chuckled.

“You’re like a ancient… erm…”

She frowned, confused.

“Ancient Greek goddess. Yeah, ‘at’s it.”

The compliment was only half reassuring. It appeared that Peter was well and truly drunk. It was the Cockney lopping-off of consonants, and the way he remained lying back with his eyes half-closed even while enjoying the sight of her. Given the state he was in, one couldn’t help but wonder: Would Sergeant Noakes be able to ‘report for duty’?

Perhaps she’d built this night up too grandly in her mind. It wouldn’t be their first night since Davey was born. But she’d hoped this would be the night that he finally stopped treating her like she was made of glass. Thus far, Peter didn’t seem to quite believe in the doctor’s go-ahead to ‘resume intimate activities.’ He would stop at every turn to ask if she was alright; was she _sure_ she was alright; they could wait until another night if she preferred…

But tonight, she had hoped, the expectations of an anniversary might create the illusion of spontaneity.

“You don’ ‘alf look chilly,” he observed with a yawn. “C’mere.”

She took off her spectacles and climbed into bed, nestling down so that her head was at his shoulders. He set to the task of warming her up. It was rather fun, even if his breath was boozy, his movements slower and clumsier than she would have liked. She thought he looked a bit Greek, himself- but not in a deified way. More of a swarthy peasant, with his dark untrimmed curls, his sturdy build, his ample chest hair peeking over the top of his vest…

Things progressed quite naturally for her. She knew that he knew it, too. He could feel the muscles of her long legs tighten and relax in a building rhythm. He could hear the sighs and giggles giving way to grunts and moans. But as for him, well- it was exactly as she’d feared.

“Sorry,” he groaned. “’m a fool, Camilla… Th’whisky… I know y’want…”

Her first thought was to tell him it was alright. To roll over and let him nod off, to press her legs tight together and wait for the feeling to pass.

But for some reason, she remembered a patient who had once talked of her “life spilling out of the cup” with her beau, after a lifetime of feeling as if there was never enough. All because she saw a chance and she took it; she “grabbed love with both hands”…

She gathered her courage. “Yes. I _do_ want,” she whispered. “Peter. Could you, perhaps…?”

He propped himself up on one elbow, gazing down at her. Beneath the bleariness she could see that he understood. Even now, there was something so clear and refreshing in those eyes of his. Peaceful and steady as the sea.

“I know it’s not… Biblical…”

“We’ll ask forgiveness, then,” he said huskily. “Tomorrow.”

He edged down the bed.


	14. Sister Evangelina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old friend comes to town as the nuns and nurses mourn Sister Evangelina's passing.

“One can’t turn one’s back for a moment! Whatever next: Freddie on a motorbike and Davey cycling down Leyland Street with his mates?”

Chummy looked up from helping Freddie with his tricycle. Jenny Lee was walking up the lane with a suitcase in hand.

“Jenny!” Chummy cried. Jenny set her case down at the garden gate and ran to her old friend for a tight hug.

“Oh, it’s so good of you to have me,” Jenny murmured into Chummy’s shoulder.

“But of course. Apparently, Nonnatus House filled up with far-flung alumni faster than one could say ‘dearly departed Sister.’ Now. Let’s see that ring of yours.”

That past summer, Jenny’s letters had been one of Chummy’s favorite distractions on the maternity ward. Jenny had been certain that her boyfriend Philip, a young lawyer with an artist’s soul and a gentle brogue, was on the verge of a proposal. And better yet: Jenny was fully prepared to accept!

Unfortunately, Davey’s difficult birth caused Chummy to lose the plot of this real-life romance novel. Until one day, Peter added a slightly different card to the growing collection of well wishes on her hospital bedside table. It was an invitation to Jenny and Phillip’s wedding next March.

Back in July, next March had seemed a lifetime away. Chummy felt every moment drag by as she laid in hospital, the painkillers trapping her between hazy waking and vivid dreams. It felt as if the doctors had taken out her baby and replaced him with a millstone. Until she tried to move, that is- and the millstone would turn into a mace head.

And to think: now they were halfway there…

Jenny thrust her left hand forward. Chummy gasped.

“Gosh, what an absolute boulder! You must be careful not to blind oncoming motorists with their own headlights. Does your hand feel fit to fall off by the end of the day?”

“Don’t be silly. It’s only .75 carat,” Jenny said coyly.

“Oh. Is it? …Well. It’s absolutely top hole, Jenny.”

Chummy had never learned how to judge engagement rings on the spot- despite the dozens of rocks thrust beneath her nose in finishing school alone. She only knew that the diamond should be large and bright, and the bride-to-be happy. In that respect, it seemed that Philip Worth had checked off all the boxes.

They dropped off Jenny’s suitcase in the foyer. Chummy led her through the sitting and dining rooms, back to the kitchen. Freddie clung to his mother’s skirts with every step. He was wary of the stranger who- little did he know- had once burped him and changed his napkins on the regular.

Peter was at the kitchen sink, bathing Davey and half-singing, half-scatting Bobby Darin’s “Splish Splash.” Jenny giggled.

“Hello, Sergeant Noakes.”

“Hello, Nurse Lee. Suppose we won’t be calling you that much longer,” he smiled. “Congratulations. Philip’s a lucky man.”

“You’re too kind,” Jenny blushed.

Chummy moved to fetch the sympathy casserole. Poor little Freddie almost got a refrigerator door to the face. Peter flicked a few drops of bathwater at the back of Freddie’s head.

“Hey. Buckaroo. Give Mummy some air. She and Auntie Jenny are leaving, anyways.”

“We should be back by supper,” Chummy told Peter. “But I can’t promise we won’t be recruited. There’s always so much to do at a time like this.”

“Well if you’re not back before my shift, I’ll take the boys to Mrs. Caplan.” He gave her a peck on the cheek. “Give everyone my regards.”

\-----

It seemed the whole East End still recognized Chummy as a former Nonnatus nurse. So when they spotted her and Jenny’s black armbands, they just had to offer their condolences. Chummy and Jenny couldn’t walk half a block without being stopped:

“We ‘eard about Sister Evangelina, we did. Such a shame. And so sudden, innit?”

“Oh I’m just heartbroken, loves. She delivered three of my eight. Always made me feel safe, she did.”

“I remember her fetchin milk for my little uns when we was in the bomb shelter.”

“She changed me old dad’s dressings twice a week for eight months. Never failed to put him at ease, jokin and laughin an’ all. I know she was born up near Reading, but she may as well’ve been one of us.”

“You’ve got the right idea there, Nurse. I jus’ popped in with a covered dish, meself. Least we can do at a time like this, innit?”

Jenny was incognito without her nurse’s uniform. Several neighbors asked if she was a relation of Nurse Noakes’. But then Yvonne Bridges waved them down, calling, “Nurse Lee! Nurse Lee!” She made their way to them as quickly as she could, given the toddler at her side, the baby in the pram, and the third on the way.

Jenny and Trixie had delivered Yvonne’s eldest, Joy. They had allowed Alan Bridges to stay with his wife during labor, which had meant the world to the young couple. Now there were hugs all around. Chummy and Jenny fussed over the growing Bridges family. Yvonne caught sight of Jenny’s ring, which launched another round of cooing. It pleased her to no end to learn that Jenny’s betrothed was a Scotsman.

“Promise me you’ll take your kiddos to Highland dancing classes. They’ve got competitions for it and everything!” Yvonne gushed. Then she stopped short. “Sorry. We shouldn’t be carrying on like this, today of all days. What would the Sister say?”

Chummy considered the question, and smiled.

“I suppose she’d grouse a bit. ‘Silly young girls, distracted by all things shiny’ and all that. But in fact, I’m quite sure she’d be simply chuffed for Jenny. And proud as well.”

There was a line out of the front door of Nonnatus House and halfway down the block. Jenny and Chummy joined the queue like everyone else. The heavy air grew darker and colder; the electric streetlights came on. There was gentle laughter in the crowd, as folks shared stories of Sister Evangelina’s brusque and indomitable heroism. Their tales warmed hearts, but not numb toes or wind-stung cheeks. Jenny began to shiver. Chummy was getting cramps, and her skirt felt tighter than when she’d left home.

Trixie and Sister Mary Cynthia cycled up, with their big leather bags of midwives’ tools on the racks behind their seats. A woman in the queue called out: “You girls jus’ come from the Anselm wedding?”

“Yes. Noelle has a little boy. Mother and baby are doing well,” Trixie reported. Then she gasped. “Oh! _Jenny!_ ”

It was Chummy’s bridal party reunited: Jenny, Trixie, Cynthia, and herself. Another round of hugs and fussing commenced- though they kept the squealing to a minimum, given the setting. Trixie took the casserole dish off Chummy’s hands.

“Oh, sweetie. Half the housewives of Poplar have had the same idea- especially after Tom asked his congregation to stop bringing flowers. We’ve had to organize food drives into Stepney! Are you alright? You look a bit peaky.”

Chummy bit her lip. Here her old friends were busy as ever, bringing new life into the world, mourning a life lost, distributing charitable casseroles. And she was out of sorts from a mere two-mile walk and a half hour of standing around.

“I wouldn’t thumb my nose at an ice water bottle,” she confessed. “After we pay our respects, of course.”

“Of course,” Sister Mary Cynthia said gently. “I’ll get it organized.”

Trixie and Sister Mary Cynthia hurried inside, as Chummy and Jenny edged towards the stoop. Jenny was still trembling. Now with her hands free, Chummy drew Jenny against her side. Even once they made it indoors, Jenny kept shaking. Chummy realized her friend was affected by more than just the cold.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “I didn’t realize it would be so hard, coming back… And for another funeral…”

Two years ago, when Jenny was still at Nonnatus House, her boyfriend Alec had died following a work accident. Everyone liked Alec. Like Jenny, he had a good heart beneath a sophisticated wit. He’d been eager to help improve the East End with his work for the council surveyors’ office. He’d easily won over all of Jenny’s friends, including Chummy and Peter. He and Jenny were so clearly sweet on each other. Peter, in particular, was convinced that Alec had been looking to his and Jenny’s future together. And then…

Chummy gave Jenny her handkerchief. But she made no remarks about the hanky’s ‘magic’; she offered no ‘come, come’ or ‘chin up, old thing.’ Now was not the time.

They were inching nearer to the chapel. The queue was hushed. The smell of lily-of-the-valley and burning candles drifted through the hall, as the chill of night pressed against the old, warped-glass windowpanes.

They wouldn’t have much time with her. Even in death, Sister Evangelina was needed by so many. Chummy walked into the chapel, holding her gold cross with one hand and Jenny’s hand with the other. She searched her memory for a bit of the Scriptures one heard at funerals.

_“My soul fleeth unto the Lord, before the morning watch…”_

She choked up. She and Jenny had only a glimpse of the sturdy figure in the casket, with the coarse blue habit, the large wooden cross- and the shroud over her face.

Sister Evangelina was gone. Truly gone. And they had to walk on, into a life without her. They didn’t dare hold up the queue. But even if they had, no matter how long they lingered, it would still feel as if they’d left too soon.

Sister Mary Cynthia met them in the hall, with an ice water bottle and a tea tray. She ushered them into the sitting room. Jenny and the Sister took two easy chairs, while Chummy laid across the settee with the water bottle on her lap. Hadn’t she laid across this same settee, just a few months ago? Sister Evangelina had been taking a well-earned hiatus with a cloistered order then. And Chummy had had a new life inside her, growing just beneath her heart.

Neither of those things would ever happen again.

Jenny had dried her eyes and regained some equilibrium. She breathed deep from the steam off her tea, then smiled at Sister Mary Cynthia.

“I’m sure this is the question of the hour, but: Any favorite memories of Sister Evangelina?”

“Yes, actually,” Sister Mary Cynthia said brightly. “When I’d first started implementing Dr. Latham’s calming techniques in deliveries, Sister Evangelina was, well, highly skeptical.”

“Naturally,” Jenny quipped.

“We went out together for Nellie Short’s labor. Sister Evangelina must have rolled her eyes at me clear through stage two. But Nellie did wonderfully. I really think the visualizations helped her make peace with her late mother’s absence.”

For a moment they just sat and listened to the crackle of the fireplace.

“Anyway.” Sister Mary Cynthia brushed back the side of her habit, like she used to do with her hair before she took her vows. “Once Nellie had her baby in her arms, and all was well, you should’ve seen the look Sister Evangelina gave me. I’d never seen her so proud.”

“It sounds not unlike my experience with Betty Smith, when her little Rosemarie arrived breech,” Chummy piped up. “When Sister Evangelina and Dr. Turner came in, at a rather critical juncture, I actually _ordered_ them both to be quiet.”

“Really, Chummy! You didn’t!” Jenny marveled.

“I did what was best for my patient. And Sister Evangelina respected me for it, I think. At least, that’s when she stopped calling me ‘Miss La-di-da’.”

“She was very protective of the East End,” Sister Mary Cynthia noted. “Which was admirable.”

“Abrasive, but admirable,” Jenny smiled.

“And what about you, Jenny? Give us your best war story.”

“Oh but it’s silly,” she sighed. “I can’t believe this is all that comes to mind…”

“Never mind that. Come on, let’s hear it.”

“Well… do you remember poor old Mrs. Jenkins? How difficult it was to gain her trust? Sister Evangelina was the first to get through to her, and she did it by, erm… by farting, actually,” Jenny giggled. “Loud, long, and apparently on demand!”

“I believe it,” Sister Mary Cynthia said wryly. “You should’ve heard her at the Mother House, after her hysterectomy.”

Chummy frowned as she sat up. _Sister Evangelina had a hysterectomy? While Cynthia was at the Mother House? But that was only just last year… Peter was boarding here at the time…_

“Are you alright?” Jenny asked Chummy.

“Quite,” she said softly. “I’ll just go and dump this old bottle out. If you’ll excuse me.”

The kitchen counters were stuffed with casseroles and cake pans, some stacked three or four high. The table was full of flowers, gifted before or despite Reverend Hereward’s announcement. Daisies and white chrysanthemums, they waited for tomorrow’s service in vases of sugared vinegar water.

Chummy moved cautiously through the sea of glass and ceramic containers. She heard a clink of china as Sister Mary Cynthia approached with the tea tray. Chummy sidled out of the way. Hoping to avoid a collision, she gently grabbed the Sister’s shoulders from behind-

_“NO!”_

The tea tray flew against the far wall. A large vase wobbled and fell. Chummy crunched wet glass shards underfoot as she backed away from the young nun. Sister Mary Cynthia’s chest was heaving; her nostrils flared; her wide eyes were fixed on something only she could see.

“…Cynthia?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Scripture that comes to Chummy's mind is Psalm 130:6, as it's phrased in the Church of England _Book of Common Prayer_ (1928 edition)


	15. Hold Her Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A heated argument leaves Peter unable to live up to all that he learned from Sister Evangelina.

After he clocked out, Peter stopped by Inspector Atkins’ office. “So we meet at All Saints at ten, and work our way out from there, yeah?” he asked.

The Inspector ponderously regarded the clock on the wall. 7:15 AM. “Sarge,” he yawned. “Just when do you plan on sleeping?”

“Once it’s all over.”

The senior officer shook his head into his morning cuppa. “The funeral’s not til noon. Why don’t you just take the wife to the service? Get your forty winks in beforehand. I’ve got more boys volunteering for route marshal than I know what to do with.”

“I know, but… I have to do my part. Like the Sister always did.”

Inspector Atkins let out a derisive chortle. He thought Peter was being soft. Like the Sister always did.

Peter was actually delivered by Sister Evangelina. Though that wasn’t what made him admire her. In the East End, it was as common to be delivered by Sister Evangelina as it was to be born on a Tuesday. The event alone imparted no special reverence or affection.

Peter grew up in a block of modest but well-kept terraced houses, where the fathers held down steady jobs despite the Depression, and the mothers prided themselves on getting by. Religious sentiment- or worse, religious charity- was for poorer, larger families. They relied on the Sisters of the Order of Saint Raymond Nonnatus only when a baby was being born, or when someone was very sick. To Peter and his playmates, the nuns were more like storybook characters than people.

The children had especially feared the one they called ‘The Thunder Nun.’ She earned her nickname by clomping about on large flat feet, making her presence felt for two or three houses in each direction. When her heavy figure approached slowly on a bicycle, the boys would run ahead of her calling:

_Look out, look out! Run for your lives!_

On foot, she’d growl at any wide-eyed youngster caught in her path: “Unless you’re fetching me linens, get _out_ of my _way!_ ” If that didn’t do the trick, she’d follow up with a smack upside the head.

Only as a grown man, once he came to know the Nonnatans and their history, did Peter realize that ‘The Thunder Nun’ was probably a composite of two Sisters. One was Sister Anna Mercedes, (“Sam” to her colleagues,) who passed away during the War. The other was Sister Evangelina, who spent the War driving an ambulance. Legend had it she was a good driver, too.

Even before the luckiest bicycle accident of his life, police work brought Peter into closer contact with the Sisters. He grew to admire the nuns for their skill, tireless work ethic, and resilience in the face of the most horrific cases. He also learned to tell them apart. Sister Julienne was the graceful, motherly sort. Sister Bernadette was the pretty young Scottish one with the specs. Sister Monica Joan was the elder nun with the sharp wit- though it began to fracture while Peter was still a rookie. He was sad to see her forced to retire.

Sister Evangelina, he learned, wasn’t quite as scary as the ‘Thunder Nun’ of his childhood. Perhaps she’d softened with age; or he’d gained perspective with it. She still growled and snapped and blustered- but only when things were out of order, or there was important work at hand. She would crack jokes when all the work was done, if she sensed she was among the right sort of people. But her idea of ‘the right people’, Peter realized, was quite the opposite of most Brits’.

When Camilla first came to Nonnatus House, Sister Evangelina had been her harshest critic. The old nun had little patience for fumbling, daydreamy, under-confident new nurses to begin with. But a _posh_ girl, extra-clumsy, and incapable of even riding a bicycle? Heaven help them both!

But then she set up Peter and Camilla on their first date. She cheered louder than anyone as they left the church after their wedding. Before they left for Africa, she helped keep Peter’s plans for a grand send-off a secret. And when Trixie tearfully forbid Camilla to leave, Sister Evangelina stepped forward, smiled and shook Camilla’s hand.

_“What a load of old tosh! Of course she’s got to go. You’ve had the Calling, haven’t you?”_

She also warned Peter:

_“You look after her.”_

Sister Evangelina’s brother once accused her of seeing the good in everything. Despite all her grumbling, Peter knew this to be true. In Camilla, the Sister saw a lady- in the best, most unpresumptuous sense of the word. A soft and sweet soul, generous and helpful to all. If she was to have a man at her side, it ought to be a gentleman- a real one, regardless of class. Peter would never forget the moments when the Sister reminded him to be that gentleman.

He remembered when Camilla took ill before Freddie was born. He saw the medics loading her into the ambulance, and he saw his own breath on the frigid night air. Everything between and around those two things was hazy. He didn’t see Sister Evangelina until they were shoulder to shoulder, both trying to climb into the ambulance. The medic said only one of them could go.

 _“Go on,_ ” the Sister had urged him. _“And you make sure you hold her hand!”_

Peter had the public viewing hours at Nonnatus memorized; he’d been fielding inquiries for days now, even on the graveyard shift. “You can pay your respects to Sister Evangelina from eight o’clock in the morning to six o’clock in the evening, Monday and Tuesday,” he told folks. “And from eight to eleven Wednesday morning, before the funeral.”

He checked his watch as he arrived at Nonnatus House. 7:50. The mourners were already queued up down the block. They let him pass because he was still in uniform. He held his hat in his hands as he entered the chapel.

Trixie was standing before the casket. Her makeup, hair and uniform were immaculate as usual, but her face was tired and grey. Suddenly Peter felt as if he were interrupting something.

“I just wanted to see her,” he explained. “Before the crowds come in.”

She smiled tightly, turning only halfway towards him. It was as if she couldn’t smile and also look him in the eye right now. And Trixie always had to smile.

“Of course you do. …I wanted to see her, myself.”

Slowly he came to Trixie’s side. He looked into the casket. And then it was real.

Sister Evangelina was nothing if not noise and motion. Peter had occasionally spotted her napping while he boarded at Nonnatus House; but even then, she snored and twitched in her sleep. To see her now, laid out so straight and still… It wasn’t really her anymore.

“I used to be so terrified of her,” he confessed.

Trixie nodded knowingly. “Me too. And I’m generally not the terrified type. But she taught me so much.”

“Me too.”

Trixie looked him in the eye now. She held out her hand to him- and he took it.

\-----

It felt good to walk into a noisy home. In the sitting room, Jenny Lee rocked Davey in big sweeping spins, complete with aeroplane noises, while a _Lone Ranger_ rerun played on the telly. Back in the kitchen, Peter could hear Camilla wrestling open the folding ironing board. “Young sir!” she snapped. “That is _not_ how we clean jam off of our fingers!”

When he spotted Peter in the hall, Freddie came running. “Daddy! Daddy!”

They shared a rather sticky hug. Jam from Freddie’s face and fingers smudged Peter’s shirt and trousers. He just chuckled. Good job Camilla was doing laundry.

He went into the kitchen and started filling the coffee percolator. “Morning love,” he called over his shoulder. “Could you iron a shirt and trousers for me first? I was attacked by a jam monster on the way in.”

_Clunk._

Camilla set the iron down hard in its holder. Peter turned and really looked at her. Her hair was limp, her glasses smudged and askew. Her brow was furrowed.

“And Sister Mary Cynthia was attacked by a lunatic sailor this summer. Peter. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He only stared at first, dumbfounded. She scoffed and set to the ironing. She grabbed his work trousers first, like he asked. But she shook them out flat with unneeded force.

“Last night I merely touched her on the shoulders from behind. The poor thing was traumatized all over again. Trixie had to lead her away with a chloral hydrate. I felt like an absolute brute.”

“Well did you tell them that you didn’t know?”

“Of course I bally did. Which only made me look like the biggest fool in all of creation. You know how I hate not knowing things, Peter. Ever since Roedean.”

Peter’s stomach sank. He didn’t know all that much about Roedean, but he did know _that._ How Camilla spent years smiling innocently down at her peers, never quite catching the gossip that buzzed about a full head’s height beneath her. She knew there were slights against her in the mix, but she could never prove it. Not that the matrons would have cared if she had.

“I- I’m sorry,” he stammered. “It happened just after Davey was born. I meant to tell you when you were stronger.”

“And when will that be, do you think?” she demanded.

“I meant to tell you _before_ now. I thought I already had! I… I must have forgotten.”

She shook her head down at the iron, pushing it back and forth a tad too quickly. “One doesn’t _forget_ that sort of thing.”

“Well maybe _one_ wished to,” Peter retorted. “She’s my friend too, you know. I was on duty when she made the report: I had to question her, take the photographs. It was one of the hardest shifts I’ve ever worked.”

“You should have told me. If anything, I could have comforted you.”

“No. You couldn’t. You were in critical care.”

She had softened for a moment there. But his flat pronouncement caused her to shut down again. She hastily folded his trousers and tossed them to him, before yanking one of his work shirts from the laundry basket.

“And what’s your excuse for not telling me about Sister Evangelina’s hysterectomy?” she asked.

“Her what?”

“Oh come now, Peter. It was last year. You were living at Nonnatus more often than not. And I wasn’t some pathetic, clueless invalid-“

“You are _not_ pathetic, Camilla. And I didn’t even know that’s what she’d had done! All they ever said around me was ‘surgery below the waist.’ I thought it was her bloody gallbladder!”

Camilla worked the iron over his shirt at a furious pace. Out in the sitting room, Jenny Lee tactfully turned up the volume on _The Lone Ranger._ Peter took a breath. If he’d learned anything from the Nonnatans- especially Sister Mary Cynthia- it was the importance of the breath.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the attack. I really am. But I’m not at fault for the other thing. Look.” He tried to sound lighthearted. “Don’t talk to me about not knowing things til you’ve been a man living in a convent.”

“No, you don’t talk to _me_ about not knowing! Not until you’ve woken up out of theatre, to find you’ve been scooped out like a rotten gourd-“

“Camilla-“

“Future hopes, and a part of yourself, taken with no warning-“

_“Camilla!”_

“And all the while, one is supposed to be _grateful-_ “

“I AM grateful!” he roared. “I’m grateful you woke up at all! I’m even grateful they took it out, ‘cos if they hadn’t, I could never touch you again for fear of killing you!”

Both the boys were wailing. The percolator bubbled away. The iron hissed. Yet a terrible silence stood between Peter and Camilla. His final few words hung over them like a poisonous London smog. The way she looked at him made him want to find a deep hole in the ground and crawl in.

She had forgotten the iron pressed flat against his shirt. It began smoking at the edges. He reached forward to move it.

With a strangled little cry, she turned and ran towards their boys. And away from him.

It seemed he hadn’t learned a damn thing from Sister Evangelina.

He was supposed to look after Camilla. Hold her hand. Cherish her. Protect her. But today of all days, he’d managed to do the exact opposite.

He had made her afraid of him.


	16. What's Left to Give

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Chummy both contemplate how to put things right again.

“People are lining the route as far as the church, Sister. I’ve stopped the traffic as far as Commercial Road.”

“Thank you,” Sister Julienne said.

“It’s the least we can do, if we aren’t allowed to give her any flowers,” Peter replied.

The Sister nodded graciously. Her view of Peter was untarnished. She didn’t know that beneath his uniform, he wore a shirt with a hole burnt through one sleeve. The crisped threads scratched him like his own personal sackcloth. She didn’t realize that when he spoke of ‘the least we can do’, he thought of another situation where he was at a loss for what to give. Not in tribute, but in penance.

He would have helped Camilla calm the boys- if he hadn’t caused their tears in the first place. Instead he left it to Jenny Lee to help. He rescued the shirt, poured the coffee, made himself some fried eggs. (And nearly burnt them in his distracted state.) He kept his ears perked for Camilla’s movements throughout the house. As he went upstairs to shave and freshen up, he kept his footsteps soft and steady. No sudden moves. It was as if there were a skittish cat in the house that he hoped not to startle.

He found Camilla in the nursery with Davey. He apologized. She told him that she forgave him. It didn’t feel like enough, so he apologized again. He tried to tell her it wasn’t true, what she said about a scooped-out gourd. The look on her face stopped him short. He started to say sorry a third time, and-

“Peter. Please. I know you mean well. But I can’t bear you fussing over me just now. We both have a long day ahead of us. The last thing you need to do is to waste your energy worrying.”

 _Do you think I can help it?_ he had thought.

Sister Evangelina’s hearse was pulled by two massive black stallions with feather plumes on their heads. And that was where the finery ceased. In lieu of a wreath, someone had placed the Sister’s shoes atop the plain coffin. Sister Monica Joan spouted some prose about how they represented her spirit better than any flowers could. Then they began the walk to All Saints Church.

The nuns were first to fall in step behind the hearse; then the current lay-nurses; then, ordinary folks stepped off the curb and joined the end of the procession. A long line of black folded in on itself, like a stocking being pulled inside-out. Peter and his work partner, Dave, stayed at the back edge of things. Ostensibly they were there to keep order, but the crowds were perfectly behaved. Just a bit of weeping. And plenty of fond anecdotes, of course; one would expect nothing less from Cockneys.

“So this is what an army hero’s funeral would sound like, without the drums and horns and fol-de-rol,” Dave observed.

“S’pose,” Peter murmured absently. He found himself scanning the curbside crowds for Camilla. He kept his gaze just above most people’s heads. It was a little like walking the beat in the summer of 1957. He used to look twice at every nurse passing on a bicycle, hoping to spot the tall one forging a wobbling path. His search today was a sad echo of the memory.

Dave whistled a playful two-tone and waved his hand in front of Peter’s face. “Hel-lo? Anyone in there?”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“Atkins said you was done in this morning. Wanna skive off? I think I can wrangle this rodeo myself.”

“No, it’s not that. …Camilla and I had a row,” he confessed.

Dave chortled. “You mean what passes for a row, for the two of you? A ‘bally botheration’ over burnt toast, perhaps?”

“No, Dave. A proper row.”

Dave whistled again: a low tone of awe and dismay. “Right. Well. You’ve got two options after the service, far’s I can see. Pop down to Forget-Me-Not Lane before heading home with your tail between your legs, or join me and the boys at the Hand and Shears.”

They sauntered on in silence for a block or so. Peter considered his ‘options’. He felt he needed to do more than just apologize, but flowers felt tawdry and small. Especially considering Sister Evangelina’s last request on the subject.

Still, it’s not like he had any better ideas.

Looking back on this year, it seemed all the bigger gifts had already been given. For their anniversary, Peter gave Camilla the camellia in the front garden. For his birthday last month, she gave him a mounted and framed color print of the family portrait from the christening. Before that, he gave her a new house. And she gave him another child.

What was left to give?

\-----

Chummy shivered and yawned as she adjusted the burping cloth, edged the rocking chair away from the drafty window, then adjusted the cloth again. Davey continued feeding with gusto. He was rightfully hungry; he’d slept soundly through the whole night. That made one of them, at least.

After she’d frightened Sister Mary Cynthia, Chummy had of course apologized. Profusely. But she was afraid the Sister wouldn’t remember. Chloral hydrate and revisited trauma were both infamous for blotting one’s memory.

Or perhaps a single apology just didn’t feel like enough.

The next day, the Sisters had been set-apart, almost cloistered in their mourning duties. They had their place of honor in the procession and in the front pews of All Saints Church. They staffed the buffet at the wake. Only once the cold ham had all been served could Chummy track down her old friend. Gently, with no sudden moves, she took her aside for a second apology.

Sister Mary Cynthia had been somber, yet she’d exuded peace and understanding:

“You mustn’t worry or blame yourself, Chummy. God is healing me, in His own time. I’ve grown much stronger already. Only when I’m too proud, and let myself get tired and overworked, do the strangest little things take me back. If that makes any sense,” she finished meekly.

It made a tremendous amount of sense to Chummy. Which was why, when she prayed for Sister Mary Cynthia’s continued healing, she didn’t just pray in the abstract. She asked God to show her ways to support her friend.

It had been simple enough when they were both nurses at Nonnatus. One could always give a struggling colleague a mug of Horlicks and a listening ear, or wash and iron a uniform, or cover a shift. But these days Chummy and Sister Mary Cynthia lived in different worlds, despite their geographic proximity. If there was anything that Chummy could give the Sister, God would have to point it out to her…

Jenny rapped lightly on the nursery door. “May I come in?”

“But of course you may.”

Jenny set down her suitcase and folded her traveling gloves atop it. Chummy fought against a sinking sense of dismay. She’d had all sorts of plans for Jenny’s visit. She’d hoped they would pop up to Nonnatus House a day or two after the funeral. They could play Cluedo with whoever wasn’t on duty. Have some cake and lemonade. Share old stories, new gossip and all that.

But instead, after the funeral Chummy had wandered restlessly through her usual housework. Her vague plans were never actualized. Jenny had bided her time playing with the boys. She made herself scarce whenever Chummy and Peter were both around. The couple kept dropping awkward “sorrys,” “it’s alrights,” and “I love yous,” all without eye contact. Chummy imagined it was a painful thing to witness, especially for such a socially-conscious creature as Jenny.

Jenny perched on the second rocking chair. She leaned in and gently nudged her finger against Davey’s hand. He grabbed hold. Jenny’s smile was genuine and joyful. Perhaps it didn’t matter so much that Chummy had been a subpar hostess.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said to Yvonne Bridges,” Jenny said. “About how Sister Evangelina would be proud of me. You do realize that she was tremendously proud of _you,_ don’t you?”

“I hope so.”

“I know so,” Jenny insisted. “What I don’t know is how you convinced them to let you breastfeed in hospital. They push formula hard enough on the normal wards, let alone in critical care.”

“Peter tells me that I simply kept asking the nurses at every turn, until finally they took pity on me and fetched a pump.” 

Chummy left out the part where the nurses had to dump the milk anyway, while she was still on morphine. When she’d realized this, she’d fought to wean herself off heavy painkillers as quickly as possible. She couldn’t articulate her motives to Jenny. It was more than just a belief in Sister Evangelina’s old slogan of “breast is best.” She’d had a deep, instinctive need to do _something_ for her child. Even when she had been too weak to do hardly anything.

Though lately, Davey needed topping off with formula milk sometimes, especially at afternoon feedings. To Chummy, it felt like the beginning of an end. Only four months old and, in a small way, her youngest child was already outgrowing her.

Davey was satisfied for now. He turned away and began wriggling inattentively. Chummy handed him to Jenny for a goodbye cuddle. She cleaned up and adjusted her nightdress. In the moment’s quiet, she could sense her younger friend planning some parting words of ‘wisdom.’

“Chummy, you do realize,” Jenny said slowly. “that it is possible to feel more than one feeling about the same event? Such as both gratitude and grief?”

“Yes, I know.”

“And one can grieve things that never were.”

“Yes,” Chummy repeated, quieter this time.

Jenny handed Davey back to his mother, then put a hand on her knee. “Don’t ever stop writing me,” she said. “I adore your letters. And you can always ring if you need me. I’ll open my umbrella and let a strong east wind blow me here.”

“Will you bring more Tinker Toys in your carpet bag?” Chummy teased. “You’ve quite won over Freddie with that early birthday gift.”

They exchanged all the ‘be wells’ and ‘safe travels’, and even a pair of preemptive ‘Happy Christmases’. Jenny gave both mother and child a kiss on the forehead. Then she was gone. 

Chummy rested Davey against her and watched the late November sunrise. The sun angled in beneath a heavy quilt of clouds, turning the dappled underside into a golden fleece. Soon the sun would slip a bit higher, and the day would turn dark and gray.

Could one truly grieve for things that never were?

Chummy recalled Sister Evangelina’s funeral. Jenny had been calm. That is, until the choir began singing Mozart’s “Ave Verum Corpus.” The same piece was sung at Alec’s funeral- in the same church, and even by some of the same singers. Within three notes, Jenny was sobbing into Chummy’s shoulder.

How much of Jenny’s grief was for the boyfriend she had had? And how much was for the husband she _could have_ had, were it not for a collapsed scaffolding? Did it even matter? Alec Jesmond had existed; he was a real, living person. That alone set him apart from the thing that Jenny alluded to.

Yes, grief always contained some wistfulness for lost potential: whether a walk down the aisle, or the simple comfort of a colleague’s presence. But there had to be a soul’s departure involved. Otherwise, the sadness of dreams lost was only that: sadness.

Chummy decided that Jenny was wrong. She could feel sad about not having a daughter. (Though she’d long resolved to never let her sons know.) She couldn’t call this sadness grief, however. To do so would be to insult the community’s grief for Sister Evangelina. Her friends’ grief for Alec Jesmond. Her own grief for Mater. And the grief of mothers who had lost actual, living babies in their earliest days.

Especially those mothers, in fact.


	17. Just You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Christmas is a lovely time for a happy ending!

_Lord Fortescue Cholmeley Browne (Sao Vicente, Madeira, Portugal)_

_The Sisters of Charity (Freetown, Sierra Leone)_

_Lord & Lady Farquhar Thompson (Torquay, Devonshire)_

_Miss Margaret Reid (Brentwood, Essex)_

_Colonel & Lady Dyke Artingstall (Ascot, Berkshire)_

_Mr. and Mrs. Ghai (Newham, London)_

These were just a few of the over a hundred names on Chummy’s Christmas card list. She set to writing, addressing, stuffing and stamping them all in late November. About a tenth of the cards were going abroad, so there was no time to waste. She was also hoping their Jewish friends and acquaintances would receive the cards before Hanukkah began. But her neighbor, Mrs. Caplan, told her the holiday began on December 3rd this year…

Of course, sending the cards en masse meant that some arrived quite early. Comically early, according to Mr. Alastair Fortescue Cholmeley Browne of Soho, West London. After receiving his Christmas card on _November_ 25th, he rang his sister for a bit of ribbing.

“A month early, on the nose! You’ve rather outdone yourself this time, old Chum. Haw-haw!”

They filled each other in on the family’s Christmas plans. Only three of the siblings were wintering in London: Chummy, Al, and their older brother Puddle. Pa wasn’t budging from Madeira; he always said he appreciated the island’s climate the most in wintertime. Bertie and the family were still in East Pakistan. Poor G.’s wife would be dragging him to his in-laws’ castle in the north of Scotland. And T. was flying to New York City on Christmas Day. One of his biggest clients had scheduled a business meeting _on Boxing Day._

“Apparently it’s not a holiday over there,” Al shrugged. “Fair enough, but one wonders: how _do_ they manage the hangovers?”

“By eating well _before_ the drinking. As I never cease to remind you.”

“Yes but I _must_ mind my physique, dear sister! You’ve no idea how important it is in my industry, even if one stands on the other side of the camera. Oh but poor old T.,” he sighed. “At least he’s the only proper bachelor in the family.”

Chummy was the only relative- indeed, the only person outside of Soho- to whom Al would ever say such a thing. Even still, he was going out on a limb. He needed to prod her into asking him:

“Does, erm… Does Herve have plans for Christmas?”

“He’s been summoned to the family chateau in Nantes, I’m afraid,” Al replied. “His brother swears this time it’s really going to be Maman’s last Christmas.”

“Oh dear,” Chummy sighed. “That leaves you quite on your own, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, well. I could always turn up unannounced at Puddle’s four-course feast.”

“That sounds positively horrid. For you I mean,” Chummy grinned. “To spare you the torture, I have no choice but to invite you to Christmas dinner at the home of Michael Birch and his wife Gladys, nee Noakes.”

“Well if you _insist._ ”

“I’m afraid I must. Also, you shall have complimentary transport by car, round trip from Soho to Stratford. Make sure you’re ready at one o’clock on Christmas Day.”

\-----

Al stood at the windows of his flat, overlooking one of West London’s shabbier streets. He checked his watch again, sighed, and lit another cigarette. Quarter past one and no sign of his sister. He was silently arguing with the Ghost of Christmases Past. _You sadistic bastard. Why must you show me this one every bloody year?_

When Al and his siblings were at boarding school, they used to spend school holidays with their guardians in-country. They were some crusty, distant aunt and uncle with a drafty old manor in rural Herefordshire. Al misbehaved one Christmas Eve- he couldn’t remember what his crime was, really. But it was heinous enough that the guardians left him locked in his bedroom the next morning. By the time he was let out for supper, all the presents were opened, and he’d missed most of the day’s fun. The Tiggers even took his Christmas cracker.

Chummy had saved her cracker to give to Al, instead.

Finally, the Noakes’ navy Vauxhall came puttering up to Al’s building. He released a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding. He shrugged on his peacoat, grabbed the Harrods bag by the door, and took off running downstairs.

“What-ho and ho-ho-ho, Noakes family! Happy Christmas! Peter, be a good man and pop the boot, would you?”

Peter obliged, then cranked down the window and said: “Sorry we’re late, Al. The car took some coaxing in this bitter cold.”

“I d-don’t b-b-blame her!” Al shivered.

He threw the Harrods bag in the boot, then climbed in the backseat next to Freddie. “Wha’s ‘at?” Freddie asked, pointing back to the boot.

“Manners, young sir,” Chummy chided, as she bumped Davey up and down in her arms. “Wish your Uncle Al a Happy Christmas first.”

“’Appy Cwissmass, Uncle Al. Wha’s ‘at?”

“Happy Christmas, Freddie. I brought gifts for the four of you,” Al replied. “And a Christmas cake for your Auntie Gladys.”

“What’s gifts?”

“ _Frederick,_ ” Chummy warned.

“Just tell me you didn’t get him Tinker Toys,” Peter grinned. “He’s gotten four barrels of those things in the past two months. We’re up to our ears in sticks and spindles.”

“I’ve come to regret bragging about young sir’s budding architectural prowess in so many of my recent letters,” Chummy admitted.

Al caught his sister’s eye in the rearview mirror. _Sorry,_ he mouthed.

_No. You didn’t!_

_I did. Your fault._

She rolled her eyes at him.

Before heading up to Stratford, they detoured to Poplar. Apparently, the Noakes had wanted to pop in on Chummy’s old nursing colleagues _before_ they picked up Al. But then the Vauxhall had other plans...

“Do you mind terribly?” Chummy asked Al. “It _is_ a convent.”

“Not at all. That sounds just tickety-boo.” _Besides,_ he thought to himself. _It’s not like I’ll burst into flames when I cross the threshold._

There were rather fewer nuns than Al had expected. In fact, there appeared to be a roughly even split between the nuns and the lay-nurses, in their day dresses and paper crowns. Al even spotted what appeared to be a family. There was a middle-aged man in the sitting room- not in cleric’s collar, but in a suit and tie. A slender woman in cats-eye glasses perched on the armrest of his chair. He was making origami flowers for a girl about Freddie’s age, while the woman looked on smiling.

“That’s Doctor and Mrs. Turner, and young Angela,” Chummy explained. But before she could make proper introductions, one of the nuns asked to speak with Chummy in her office. And another, much older nun placed her large, veined hands on Al’s arm.

“Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, and far has your gold traveled from its cranial roots! But never mind that now, for even the humble barber lays down his tools today. We celebrate the ancient Romans’ first, faint perceptions of the lengthening sunlit hours! Just as it is with your hair, young man, the golden days stretch nigh imperceptibly. Only retrospection across the months shall reveal the glorious changes. Meanwhile we must wait. And content ourselves with Christmas cake!”

“Oh! Erm,” Al smiled meekly. “Actually, we’ll soon be on our way to-”

Peter cleared his throat deliberately. “Just have the cake, Al,” he muttered. “It’s easier that way.”

Al felt a little like Alice at the Mad Tea Party. Playing conversational hopscotch between the intellectual and the nonsensical, while being offered endless cake- and no real option to refuse. But just as he was starting to enjoy Sister Monica Joan’s oddly enchanting company, Chummy came and found him. She’d finished meeting with the other nun, and now they really must be on their way.

Back in the car, Peter asked: “What did Sister Julienne want?”

“She wanted to know...” Chummy paused for effect, grinning. “If I still have my nurse’s uniform.

“The Order has just received a call to assist their sister clinic in South Africa, which is critically understaffed,” she continued. “They leave in a fortnight. Of course, a ‘skeleton crew’ will remain here in Poplar. Sister Mary Cynthia will stay, to care for Sister Monica Joan. One or two nurses will remain as well, to help her hold down the fort.”

“That’s a tall order for just two or three midwives,” Peter pointed out. “What with deliveries, district rounds, clinics…”

“Precisely. Which is why Sister Julienne asked if I might ‘jump back in the saddle’, so to speak. Just while they’re away.”

“That sounds like _such_ fun,” said Al.

Chummy either missed or ignored the sarcasm. “It is, rather,” she beamed. “And the answer to a prayer. I’ve asked the Lord to show me how I can be of help to Sister Mary Cynthia.”

It was Peter’s turn to catch Al’s gaze in the rearview mirror. Neither of them put much stock in that sort of thing. Still, Peter didn’t skip a beat.

“You’ve got to do it, then,” he declared. “We’ll talk to Mum about watching the boys. Or we’ll work something out with Mrs. Caplan.”

“Oh, Peter. Do you mean that?”

“‘Course I do.”

She shifted the sleeping baby in her lap so that she had a free hand. She reached out and put it over Peter’s on the steering wheel.

“ _Yuck!_ ” said Freddie.

\-----

There must have been two dozen people in the Birch house. Chummy and her family only just arrived in time for Christmas dinner. Chummy’s roasted Brussel sprouts and Al’s store-bought Christmas cake were received with hasty but hearty thanks.

The meal was nothing but an unending cacophony of Christmas crackers, the jokes found therein, grunted compliments on the food, and requests for dishes to be passed. Al’s head was spinning as they all migrated, bloated and jovial, to the sitting room to watch the Queen’s Christmas Message.

He was glad to see he wasn’t the only stray single person. Far from it, actually. Chummy’s brother-in-law Mike had invited his cousin Joanne. She wore a turtleneck and pencil skirt, an immaculate beehive, and the distinct vibe of ‘I _enjoy_ being a secretary and I earn a good wage, thank you.’ There was Peter’s spinster auntie Mary. His parents had also brought along some friends from Walton-on-Naze, whose relations were all deceased or abroad. Perhaps by the end of the night, Al would figure out which of the jolly old ladies was Auntie Mary, and which were just Myrtle Noakes’s bridge pals.

Chummy smiled as Davey was passed from one adoring woman’s arms to another. At one point, Al spotted her chatting easily with her mother-in-law. But she seemed to hardly know the rest of the crowd better than he did. Nor was she any braver in getting to know them. Brother and sister were soon camped out on spare chairs in the dining room corner, nibbling Christmas pudding and watching the festivities wind down.

The children had their musical chairs, ran themselves ragged throughout the house, then commandeered the telly to nod off in front of _Just William’s Luck._ The bridge game at the kitchen table grew slurred and sluggish. Peter’s sister Gladys played piano in the dining room. Mike, Joanne and Peter stood around her, singing off-key and shouting their requests.

“What do you _mean,_ you don’t know Jingle Bell Rock? Blimey, Glad, it’s only your brother’s _favorite._ ”

“I ‘aven’t got the sheet music!” Gladys whined. Meanwhile her accompanists were laughing much harder than they would have three eggnogs ago.

Al nudged Chummy. “I say. Wasn’t there an old piano at the home where you were matron?”

“Indeed. Last December, the girls never ceased to request ‘Jingle Bell Rock.’ I suspect that, even now, I could hammer out the chords in my sleep.”

The room had fallen quiet over Chummy’s proclamation. Gladys got up and patted the piano bench, grinning. All three Birches seemed to find this hilarious. But Peter was subdued.

“You don’t have to, Camilla,” he said.

“Yes I know. But I want to.”

Perhaps it was the brandy in the Christmas pudding talking, but Al thought he saw something transpire between Chummy and Peter. A slight hesitation, a careful distance. Al wasn’t privy to the inner workings of their marriage. Nor did he want to be. But after the year they’d just had, he imagined that even the most loving of couples might feel a bit of strain.

Chummy sat down at the piano and smoothed her skirt. She stretched her fingers over the keys, then looked up at Peter.

“Tell me what you need,” she said.

Peter smiled. “Just you.”

And just like that, the distance was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sister Monica Joan's first words to Al are the beginning of a poem by John Keats. ("On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer": _Much have I traveled in the realms of gold / And many goodly states and kingdoms seen..._ ) She and Lucille quote the same stanzas to each other in canon (s7e1).


	18. Acknowledgements and References

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Because I'm weirdly particular about this sort of thing.)

Thank you to my family, for always believing in my writing, and for teaching me much of what I know about hard work, love, and resilience.

Thank you Jennifer Worth, Heidi Thomas, and countless others for all your creative labors (pun pun) to bring _Call the Midwife_ to life.

An extra special thank you to Miranda Hart, for your endearing and inspiring portrayal of Chummy. And for your uplifting humor and tireless commitment to your craft. I have been deeply touched by your honesty, bravery and compassion concerning mental health and body image. For all of this, I cannot say thank you enough. (Well, maybe I could. But I don’t think my readers want to scroll through “thank you” written over and over hundreds of times.)

And now for the part where I give the verbal equivalent of run-and-jump hugs to all my ff reviewers, and “Tumblr Nonnatan” friends.

Mordanyes, my very first reviewer! I get the sense that this story made you go “aww” a lot, and I love that. Because that is exactly what Chummy’s scenes in the show do to me.

EleanorKate, my sensei, my predecessor in the sacred ways of Chummy x Peter fangirling! *bows* It’s an honor when anyone tells me my characterization is on-track. But it’s extra-special whenever you say so, considering the treasure trove of insightful Chummy x Peter fics that you have written.

RogueSnitch: Fellow psychology geek! Yay! Thank you for the reviews, and for your lovely messages.

Titanicpancreas, thank you for your help over at the NaNoWriMo help desk! I’m glad you got to enjoy a story about one of your favorite shows as recompense.

TLWtlw, I realize I kinda messed up your chapter 9 review by changing the title. (This story was previously titled “Presenting Beatrice Noakes.”) Sorry. You predicted the main plot of what will now be the sequel. I’m still impressed!

Weshallc, you are an absolute brick. I love your attention to the little things. Your messages were a huge encouragement, too.

Ginchy-amanda: You really are a ginchy gal, and a great fan-friend!

Broadwayfreak5357: Girl you are THE BEST. You make me a smile a lot!

Thanks again to the Tumblr-Nonnatans who helped me “locate” Drakefield Estate: weshallc, poplarpatience, my-little-yellowbird, snoopctm, like-an-officer-and-a-sergeant. We may have decided to go along with something of an historical anomaly, putting tract houses in Poplar. But the Turners will be moving in soon, so it’s all tickety-boo and marvelous!

Thank you to bbcshipper, callthemoonbeam, nunonabun, ilovemushystuff, and cooldoyouhaveaflag, for your invaluable support over yonder on the big blue blog. I count you all among my internet-friends now. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.

And last but certainly not least, thank you to longstanding friends, both online and “IRL,” who watched me get all wrapped up in a new fandom/creative outlet and went, “Alright. Awesome!” Robin, Amy, Patty, Abby, and of course Leslie the Bestie- your friendship means so much to me.

If I’m forgetting anyone, or if more reviewers come in on either site, then nil desperandum! I will update this page in the future.

**References**

**Primary Sources**

Worth, Jennifer. (Terri Coates, ed.) The Midwife: A Memoir of Birth, Joy, and Hard Times. Penguin Books, 2002. Print.

Worth, Jennifer, and Heidi Thomas, creators. Call the Midwife. British Broadcasting Corporation, 2012.

“Onscreen, on-page” characters are portrayed in Call the Midwife by the following actors (in order of first named appearance on-page):

Chummy Noakes - Miranda Hart  
Freddie Noakes - Liam Kiff  
Peter Noakes - Ben Caplan  
Trixie Franklin - Helen George  
Sister Julienne - Jenny Agutter  
Nurse Patsy Mount - Emerald Fennell  
Sister Mary Cynthia (Cynthia Miller) - Bryony Hannah  
Sister Winifred - Victoria Yeates  
Nurse Delia Busby - Kate Lamb  
Nurse Barbara Gilbert - Charlotte Ritchie  
Nurse Phyllis Crane - Linda Bassett  
Sister Monica Joan - Judy Parfitt  
Fred Buckle - Cliff Parisi  
Reggie Jackson - Daniel Laurie  
Violet Buckle - Annabelle Apsion  
Jennifer Lee - Jessica Raine  
Yvonne Bridges - Victoria Bewick  
Sister Evangelina - Pam Ferris  
Dr. Patrick Turner - Stephen McGann  
Shelagh Turner - Laura Main  
Angela Turner - Alice Brown

**Background Research (Websites last accessed between March 27 and May 27, 2018)**

“33 Foods That Banish Bloat Once and For All.” (27 December 2017.) Redbook Online.

“An Order for the Burial of the Dead (Alternative Services: Series One.) The Church of England Online.

Ati, P. “Top 10 Most Expensive Clothing Brands in the World.” (30 October 2017.) StyleCraze.

Bell, R. “Mother & Baby Homes, c. 1960, England.” (2013)

Chaplin, S. “BBC Christmas TV 1961.” UK Christmas TV. (2018)

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**“Quick Checks” and Internet Tools**

Behind the Name

Google: Image Search, Maps, Search, and Translate

Historical Currency Converter (Test Version 1.0.)

Popular Baby Names – Social Security

Wikipedia: 100+ different topics fact-checked, including medical conditions, brand and designer names, books, music, TV programs, geographic locations, languages and more


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